


Resurgence of a Failing Sun

by WisdomOfCelestials



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WisdomOfCelestials/pseuds/WisdomOfCelestials
Summary: Doran's tale is a tragedy, he lost his sister, and then his brother, and son in a quest to avenge his sister. The Dornish Master Plan is poised to fail in the books. But this shall change, when a person from Earth, is fused with Doranin 296 AC, two years before Jon Arryn's death. Can this change Dorne's fortunes or is the tale of the Martells doomed to be a tragedy?
Comments: 40
Kudos: 151





	1. The Flame to the Sun

I was finishing my can of energy drink as I drove my car on the dark highway, when suddenly, a large truck careened from a bend further ahead. Though the driver seemed to have panicked, and had turned on his headlights at the last moment, I would still have no time to react to this and so the truck crashed into the side of my moderately-sized car.

As I flew from the windshield of my car, my collarbone shattered and a dozen ribs broken, a hundred kilometres from any large city, on an isolated stretch of highway in the South of India, I knew then and there, that I would not survive, and so I resigned myself to my death. Despite having been a powerfully built man for my size, 4 inches under 6 feet, I would have no chance at surviving, and so I did not do what those protagonists in films do, “Cling onto their life and fight the spectre of death.” I’d lived a life of mediocrity, but it was enough to satisfy me as I firmly held to the belief that I would be granted another life, a by-product of my devout belief in Buddhism.

And so, as out of the corner of my eye I spotted the truck-driver and his companions rush to try to locate my person… or corpse rather, I decided that I would close my eyes then and there. And so I did, and almost immediately, the end came for me, at the age of 23.

It was a queer thing, the after-life, a hazy cloud of grey with the odd words of green, and smells of music wafting about the ball that I now inhabited, which I supposed was my soul. The odd sensations of feeling things with senses that other senses required, was I supposed, similar to the medical condition of synaesthesia, which my friend Rohan had experienced not two years ago as a complication of another medical condition, but that made it no less a harrowing experience for me, recently deceased as I was.

Then the unfathomable happened, I shot through the air, as I left the cloud of grey, and flew far above, far, far above, as I watched the Earth pass below me, and the other planets of the Solar System accompany it. I was queerly satisfied by my confirmation that the planet was indeed round, despite the stupidity of flat-earthers across the globe, but these thoughts quickly gave way to those of wonder and awe as I flew further up, through the three dimensions of space, as even the stars, the nebulae, and other stellar phenomena shrunk to mere balls of light, that far dwarfed me in size, but seemed the same due to the vast distance.

As I went further up still, I realised that what I was looking down at, if the sensation could be termed such, as my soul-self lacked eyes, was now the Milky Way, and it too in turn shrank further as I careened upwards, higher still. The speed increased further, and soon, many dozens, hundreds, millions of points soon joined the Milky Way below me, and as I appeared to come to a stop, I gazed down reverently, for the infinite cosmos of the universe lay beneath me.

And then the thought crossed my mind, “If the Universe is beneath me, where am I?”, and as if an almost imperceptible being, unfathomably above me had spoken in reply, I was again pulled upwards, and to my shock, that would be ill described in words, I was still staring down at our universe, but cosmic threads arced from it like the construction of an eldritch space spider, as they trickled from it, to several other pools of light, which I assumed were other universes.

But they were not of uniform length, if infinities could be described to be or to not be of uniformity, as I saw that some were outright smaller, while others were of the same size. I’d never possessed great insight into the multiverse theory, but I would have wagered then and there, that the similar sized universes were most likely alternate variations of our own, differing in timeline, stellar constellations, and etc.

But they did not interest me half so much as those smaller, for I could not understand what they could be. And this time, as if in response, I was hurtled yet again against my will, but this time not upwards, but towards one of the smaller universes.

And this time, I could not express pleasure and awe at seeing any sights of magnificence, not only because I could hardly spot any, but also because I was being projected with a speed far higher than the one I had ascended with.

I passed through many a ball of light, which I momentarily recognized to be suns, and passed through many more clouds of cosmic dust, encompassing hundreds of thousands of cubic kilometres, and finally, my path slowed as I entered a Solar System.

I was no astronomer, but I recognized that this system could quite be an anomaly, as I remembered having been a boy when a system with seven possibly habitable planets had been discovered, for what I saw were that there were 12 Planets, which exhibited copious quantities of water on their surfaces.

The invisible force further drew me towards the 4th Planet, which I recognized, dwarfed the others largely. I was lodged in orbit for what seemed to be five minutes, though it could very well have been millennia for all I knew. And I observed the planet rotating, and the first thing I glimpsed was a continent. This continent seemed vaguely familiar to me, and I racked my brains for where I had seen this shape prior. It hit me then. It was near in the shape of Great Britain… but that could only mean? I gazed to the right of it, and my suspicion was confirmed when the large continent resembled Eurasia.

There was little doubt that this was the world of Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, but then I stopped, could it be the show? If it were the latter, I reasonably hoped I would be born as the son of a camel-herder in Dorne, so the events in the Show would hardly affect me, as the Long Night had been the not so-long episode here.

If it were the books, then it would be a different ball-game, but would also grant me further knowledge of events, as I’d read the books several times, but had watched the show only once, as a 17 year old back in the summer of 2019? Though Martin had expired before releasing A Dream of Spring, the Winds of Winter had finally dropped a year back, and I’d had time only to read the first few chapters, which detailed Barristan winning the Siege but barely, and Stannis winning the battle in ice, and then moving on to capture Winterfell with some long-winded tactical plan.

I frowned as I remembered that Stannis had captured Winterfell and had executed the Boltons, and that Davos had successfully rescued Rickon, but Stannis had died of his wounds and was buried in the crypt, though the North remained grateful to his memory or something.

But then again, I might not even be re-born during this era and my knowledge would be worth little and less. I might even be born before the conquest, and be recruited as a peasant levy only to be burned in the Field of Fire.

There were several similar situations that would be far less than ideal. I might be born in the vastness of Sothoryos as a Brindled Man, where-in I’d have to face King-Kong and his cousins as well as Super-Bats, and who knows what or I might be born in Leng, which would not be ideal either, what with the eldritch beings buried beneath the surface. Ulthos was another place I knew little of; though I mused Sothoryos would be the same, as it was far too large a continent.

I remembered a theory, and I gazed at the far North, and my curiosity was satisfied as I noted the so called Lands of Always Winter, curved around and formed a land-bridge to Essos, and in particular connected to the Grey Waste, which explained the purpose of the Five Forts, as they’d have to deal with Walkers too, or their cousins, Grey Jumpers, much in the same vein the Wall did.

I had a view quite similar to Google Earth, and I would not squander this, as I might be able to make a name for myself as a mapmaker if I retained even a bit of my memory, as I observed that there was a large land-mass West of Westeros, and further west of this Wester-eros was Ulthos yet again, which could explain the theory that the Farmen? Farmer? Farman girl had gone west to reach the east, as the Velaryon had spoken of seeing her ship in Asshai.

But before I could get a glimpse of what was to the South of Sothoryos, the cosmic force that had brought me here sent me crashing down to the Planet. My path was uncontrollable, and I viewed that I was heading for Dorne, which might mean that it was the show-verse and the cosmic force was taking pity on me and planned to make me the son of a camel-herder.

But these thoughts were dashed as I approached a large city, whose architecture resembled medieval middle-eastern cities. I thought, “Sunspear?” and realised that I would be a Martell, or perhaps a commoner who lived in Sunspear, either of which could be both good and bad.

And before I lost consciousness, I saw that my soul-ball was aimed for the palace.

I dreamt strange things, enactments of the things I knew, as well as memories of Earth, before I realised that had retained my memories, which may or may not prove useful. But it also made me realise I would have to face the difficulties of child-hood fully endowed with sentience.

But this extended sleep was interrupted, as my eyes opened, and I realised I was laying on what could only be described as an exquisite bed, which was far softer than the one I had in my apartment. I observed the ceiling, and I noted that it had been painted white, and in the center was a mural of a sun with a spear pierced through it. _So I’m a Martell?_ I thought to myself. But that did not explain how I was on a bed. Infants were placed in cribs, even in the world of ASOIAF. I tried to feel my body and its size and dimensions indicated that I was of similar stature as my former one, though with far less muscle-mass.

_So I’ve hijacked an existing Prince’s body. Oberyn? Trystane? Quentyn?_ I thought to myself. And as I tried to get-up, I was treated to an excruciating pain in my leg, particularly around my joints. As I grunted in pain, a short man hovered above me. I estimated him to be five feet tall, and he was completely bald, with a baby-face. The man was obese, but he had chains around his neck forged of different metals. _A Maester,_ I remembered the term for the half-doctor half-academic jobs that these chained men took.

He spoke, “Prince Doran, I beseech you to not get up as yet, Maester Myles shall get your cane, if you wish to walk, though I do not recommend so. You have been asleep, under dream-wine, as five days hence you fainted after the attack of your gout, My Prince. I must humbly request that you stay in bed.”

I smacked myself mentally, for I’d almost forgotten the ruler of Dorne, who’d been butchered having done little in the show, and whose long-wrought plans for revenge for the death of his sister had fallen apart in the books with the death of Viserys, his brother, and then his son. I would not allow this to happen, but I needed to find out what the year was, for it would allow me to dictate the future to benefit Dorne.

I spoke, my mouth rasping to life, “If that is what you shall recommend, Maester Caleotte, I shall do so. But the memories fleet away from me. Tell me, what year is it?”

The chubby Maester panicked momentarily, but having realised I had spoken his name and seemed in control of my faculties opened his mouth to answer. I wondered how I had remembered his name, but the answer it would seem, was that some vestiges of Doran accompanied his body with me, but I didn’t know if he was a separate entity, or if we had been fused.

Before I could mull further, the Maester spoke, “It is the fourth month of the year 296 after Aegon the Conqueror’s Conquest. The current ruler atop the Iron Throne is Robert Baratheon, the 1st of His Name.”

I spoke to further ascertain when I was, “And the Hand is Jon Arryn is it not?”

The Maester nodded, at which I realised it would perhaps be two year or more before the Hand died, though there was the chance that the events would change with the introduction of me, a far more active Doran. And to be frank, I would have to see if saving him was worth it, though I had no doubt that it would require the death of Littlefinger to ensure so.

No, what I needed to do was find out how strong Dorne was in truth, and how I could strengthen it further in the next year or two. While Dorne’s location left it unaffected by the War of the Five Kings, I would have to take a far more active hand if I meant to achieve “Vengeance, Justice, Fire and Blood for the memories of both Elia Martell and her slaughtered children.

Wait, I would have to confirm if this was Book-Canon or Show-Canon, and so I asked the Maester, “My children, where are they?”

Caleotte bobbed his head up and down and spoke, “Princess Arianne has returned to Sunspear the moment she received news about your illness. Trystane hovered about your bedside for a few hours every-day to ensure you were recovering, well-meaning child that he is, and Quentyn remains with the Yronwoods.”

So, I had three children, and one of them believed I’d set her aside. I understood Doran’s need for secrecy about the betrothal, but he must surely have seen that his daughter had been feeling alienated, inadvertently or not. I would need to fix this, and a great other things. But I needed an accomplice, someone to ensure what I would want could happen, as unlike other Self-Inserts that I had occasionally read, I would not have the luxury of a fit body, having already been reduced to the cane, and if I let the future progress in the same manner, a wheel-chair. And who better to do so than my brother… Doran’s brother, Oberyn. But that did not mean I would allow the Gout to take control, I would still need to present myself to be active and I knew how to.

My uncle…. Back home, not Lewyn Martell had suffered from Gout as well, and I knew well enough that the best cure was a lifestyle change, and so I spoke, “Help me to the desk, Maester, and send in my brother if he is here and my daughter if he is not. If Oberyn is here, tell Arianne that I will have an audience with her next.”

The Maester bobbed his head up and down like a chicken again, and moved to help me up to the desk which was next to my bed. The joint-pain was harsh, but not terrible, not yet, and I wouldn’t allow it to devolve to that extent yet. As I sat at my table, I removed a sheet from the fresh ream of paper that sat in front of me.

It was scented, I noted, a hint of cinnamon and lemon had been infused, but that without, I needed to write that which I knew about the future, and that which I knew could alienate my own pain, lest I forgot. And as I began to write, the Maester opened the door and left, and the guard in my room, _Areo Hotah,_ I remembered, moved to close it.

I began scrawling, and I noted that the hand-writing was utterly unlike my own, which was a boon, as muscle-memory like this would be essential to continue in my role as Doran.

  1. Fruits, especially Cherries.
  2. Vegetables and legumes.
  3. Nuts and whole grains, specifically, Brown rice.
  4. Dairy, goat milk preferably.
  5. Tea or Green Tea, which I wager I could source shipments from Yi Ti for.
  6. Spices, which my Dornish/Indian soul approved that I could still partake of.
  7. Plant based oils to cook everything in, which only meant Olive Oil as I was in Dorne.
  8. Exercises to build up strength in joints, and perhaps lessons in the axe from Areo, because if Tyrion could use it, why couldn’t I?



Though I knew I was approaching my fifties, wherein which the gout would proceed to fester if I let it, there was always the capability for me to build up enough strength before the sixties set in.

With the weapons to guard my health firmly ensconced, I began writing in my own, tiny, dirty, hand, dipping ever so often into the ink-pot to replenish the quill. Before Oberyn Martell entered, I would have to present something to him that would convince him why our objectives needed to change as well as seem in-line with the cautious nature of Doran.

While I was obviously not going to be a great-commander of men, I believed that I could orate fairly well, allowing me to draw support from the Dornish lords who believed I was weak. I knew little of battle-tactics, but I remembered certain parts of the books well enough, including the fact that horses could be dealt with by camels. Along with this, I recalled a few tidbits from AOE2, though how much a video-game would help was beyond me, in particular the fact that of the Battle of Lepanto, the heavy Venetian Galleases crushed the smaller ships of the Turkish Navy, though constructing such ships would be an arduous task, if the deadline weas to be only three years.

Now, as I contemplated the matter of how to set in motion the things I knew into things that were going to happen, Inspiration struck me, and I began to write the following, “The Son of the Dragon supposedly lives, fostered with Griff, Griffin Lord whose death faked. Possible Blackfyre. Pentosi Cheesemonger and Spider knows more.” as part of the first line, and I encircled the word Son with the Sun, rays curving about it.

The second line I wrote as follows, “Stag has no children, all-products of incest. Kingslayer and Queen. Stannis rightful heir.”

The third line I wrote next, “Pentosi Cheesmonger Illyrio Mopatis likely to harbour Daenerys and Viserys. Boy King is his father.” Followed in turn by, “Kraken prepares another fleet, may seek another rebellion within the decade”, and in turn, “Hand’s wife abed with Littlefinger, who steals from the treasury.”

The penultimate line was, “Tyrells working with Renly to establish Margaery as the next Queen.”

And I finished this haphazard document meant to evoke the sense of a report with as follows, “Lyanna and Rhaegar wed in Dorne, Septon located who claims Doctrine of Exceptionalism evoked to allow for a second wife, with consent of Princess Elia. Son taken by brother Eddard Stark, In disguise as his bastard to prevent Stag from slaying him.”

As I stared at the document, mildly satisfied by my handiwork, I spoke, “Areo, bring the lantern here if you would.” And the large guard moved forward, his iron half-helm glittering momentarily from the light of the lantern, I motioned him to place it near the report which he did dutifully.

Before he went back to his spot, I spoke to him, “Areo…. I have a question about your home, Norvos, would you entertain it? I ask this because it may or may not be something you know of.”

The large man gave a look of confusion which lasted no more than a blink of an eye before saying, “It is for my prince to command, and for Hotah to obey.”

I clasped my hands together below my chin, ignoring the pain, as I spoke, “Does Norvos possess Camels? If so, how do they use them?”

The large man spoke again, stroking his beard, “Camels? The large beasts with the humps? Aye, Norvos possesses them. The Bearded Priests train some men to ride camels with long-axes that are lighter than normal, to deal with the odd small Khalasar that they would not pay anything to. The beasts terrify horses that the Dothraki are so fond of, as well as being more than capable of cutting through their lines. Though I believe the Qartheen are even more fond of Camelry and field more Camels then Horses as their mounted soldiers.” As the man was speaking, I placed the first sheet of paper in the drawer of the desk, while the heat of the lantern quickly dried the ink on the second.

I nodded, and dismissed him with, “Hmm, please light that brazier as you return to the door, Areo.” And so the axe-master did exactly that, and as he had finished, he stepped back to the door. As I was reading the files that were present in Doran’s desk, I was made privy to information that I would have otherwise not known, while Dorne was not considered to be a wealthy state, Doran had covertly established contracts with…Qarth and Yi Ti of all places for something termed…. Black Oil that Dorne possessed a large supply of, which coupled with our trade of exotic foods had given us an economy only a shade behind the Tyrells, rather than a middling one equivalent to the Riverlands that everyone had been led to believe. As I perused the file about our military strength, learning that though the number of fifty thousand soldiers was a sham, Doran had been increasing the available levies from the twenty thousand he had started, to a thirty, of the same size as the Vale, we were greeted with knocks on the door, a pattern of “ _rap, rap, tap-tap-tap”_ in quick succession, which my… Doran’s memories told me were Oberyn’s style of knocking.

The Axe-Master opened the door, and inclined his head downwards while speaking, “Prince Oberyn.”

The person who entered wasn’t Pedro Pascal, but a slender man who had three inches on me, with a lined face. With long hair and a widow’s peak he quite resembled a Spanish Billionaire or something close, and in curiosity, I looked into the full-length mirror in the room, and saw that I looked older than my age of the late forties, as near most of head was grey, flecked with the odd black. If anything, I resembled the artwork of me holding an orange rather than Alexander Siddig, and looked more like an uncle to Oberyn then a brother.

This contemplation in the mirror was interrupted by Oberyn speaking in a long, slow drawl, “Well brother? You planned to leave us so soon, before the… plan could be enacted? A bad jest indeed.” Though Oberyn spoke like there was laughter prepared to escape at the bottom of his throat, I noted that there was a slight glint in his eye.

I sighed, “For once, you’re right, Oberyn.” And to this, the Red Viper’s visage flickered in confusion, before I beckoned him. “Areo, stand outside the door, and allow no-one to enter until my audience with my brother elapses, and if my daughter appears, tell her to not run away, for I have important matters to speak of with her. And if she does not listen to you, the nineteen year old stubborn girl that she is, tell her it constitutes the future of Dorne that should catch her attention.”

As the Norvoshi guard moved to obey, Oberyn spoke, “You seek to make her Princess of Dorne? What of the pact?”

I stared at him contemplatively, weighing my words so they were to be believed, while leveraging my skills from the debates I’d taken part in, and spoke, “I have not been idle brother, though Dorne believes so, though my own children believe so, and though you are the only one who knows that this is not the truth, there are some things I have wrought, cloaked as they are in further shadows, that even you do not know.”

At this Oberyn raised an eyebrow and I momentarily envied him, for I’d always wanted to be able to do that, and spoke, “What are these things brother?”

Seizing the chance, I spoke, “Varys the Eunuch might be the Master of Whisperers in the Usurper’s court, but I have developed a network of spies far-ranging, and the likes of which I doubt even Bloodraven possessed. Me entering a sleep was the signal for them to begin reporting, and look brother, at what I have found.” And saying so, I passed the second letter to him.

He began to read it aloud, “The son of the dragon still lives.” And as his finger traced the drawing of the sun, his eyes darted upwards to me, staring sharply, as he spoke softly “Elia’s babe Aegon?”, to which I responded “Perhaps, and I can only hope that it is the same, but do read ahead.” At which he began to comply, before speaking, “Fostered with Jon Connington? Who drank himself to death? Another man returned from the grave. Though this… cheesmonger and Varys’ involvement is something which makes me consider if he could be Aegon, or if he is a Blackfyre as your… informant says.”

I nodded at this, slowly scratching my beard, as I spoke, “And of the second?” at which he glanced back at the paper before erupting in laughter, “So the Stag has been given horns? By the gods, with her own brother, I wonder what Robert or Jon Arryn would do if we were to… discreetly make them aware of this?”

I gave a smile, and said, “The Usurper would no doubt impale his wife onto the Throne, and have Selmy open up the Kingslayer’s guts, as he’s too fat to do it himself, leaving the…” His voice hardened as he spoke, “Mighty Tywin Lannister with the half-man as his only living heir. But I’d have you read the rest all the same.”

Oberyn continued to read, “Pentosi Cheesemonger? As in this Illyrio Mopatis…. This does not seem to be of any good news; the man would be dipping his fingers into all of the Targaryen pies available, though for what reason eludes me still. And now I understand why you would call off the betrothal, if the boy is his father come again. I would not allow my niece to wed a mad-man, no matter how prestigious his blood. Though the daughter may prove more malleable.”

I spoke, “Yes brother, though it would seem that no one is aware of the pact apart from us and the Sealord of Braavos, as Willem Darry expired before he could inform both the Targaryens.”

Oberyn nodded, before continuing, “Balon Greyjoy is an idiot the likes of which I doubt the Kingdom has ever seen since Baelor the Blessed, if he thinks he can return to his people’s ways of reaving a second time without Baratheon crushing the Iron Isles and sowing salt in his fields, meagre as they are. Though this business of Jon Arryn being cuckolded does not sit well with me; Hand of the Usurper he may be, he has no great love for the Lannisters either.

I did not speak at this, merely nodded as he spoke, “So Renly would have his brother annul his marriage to Cersei, while wedding a Tyrell, to gain influence with them? An interesting ploy, that the Reach’s marcher lords may use to cause harm to Dorne if it works.”

Now I spoke, “The final one…. May seem unbelievable, but my informants are well and truly emplaced about the Seven Kingdoms, and the veracity of this is unquestionable..” at which Oberyn read it, and a shade of red began to form in his face, anger no doubt, at which he spoke so softly that It were almost a whisper, “So Rhaegar did impregnate Lyanna, and the most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms besmirched his honour to protect the little dragon. I would be wroth if your man had found out that Rhaegar were willing to set aside Elia for this.. She-wolf, but if Elia consented, then I suppose I cannot slay this bastard of Winterfell.”

Oberyn then spoke, composing himself, “So what would you have us do brother? There is enough knowledge in this piece of paper that Varys’ lost member would throb to take hold of.”

“Right now? Burn it brother, Arianne does not need to know no more than that the secret betrothal I had planned for her is broken, and that she will be trained to rule Dorne after me, as I have come to know I have neglected in instructing her so. What contents of the letter, lie only between me and you, but they force me to take a greater hand in events to be, and perhaps involve a few lords, the Bloodroyal and the Qorgoyle at the very least.”

Oberyn nodded, and I spoke, “You on the other hand, tell me, is your mercenary company still active?”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow again before speaking, “The Halberds of the Sun? Aye, they are present in Qohor as of now if I am not wrong, with Uncle Manfrey’s second son, Morgan leading them. Why? What would you have me do with them?”

“Take part of the fleet of Sunspear, no more than forty ships, and take a strong contingent of Dornish Spearmen with you, to protect from pirates, and in addition to the war-ships, take additional boats. You will also take Quentyn with you, along with his companions, for what I have in mind shall require both your attentions to complete. You will seek out this… Illyrio Mopatis or scour the Rhoyne for Jon Connington if you must, with seven warships, for I must have the truth about this Aegon one way or the other. You will dispatch instructions as well as gold to Morgan to secure atleast three thousand camels, whether from Qarth or Norvos I do not care, and preferably of both the types, that is, with one hump and two. He will also scour the cities for soldiers trained to ride them, and shepherds capable of handling them, whether he has to buy slaves and free them, or hire free-men I do not mind, for it could not be a tenth so as hard to find men for this purpose rather than ask them to sail to Valyria, while Quentyn and his fleet shall bring back the Halberds of the Sun, the Camels, and their handlers to Dorne.”

Oberyn’s eyebrows went ever upward, and threatened to escape into the sky before he spoke, “Camels brother? What madness is this?”

“Aye, a madness it will be, the reclusive Prince of Dorne has taken a fancy to breeding camels will be what the Seven Kingdoms shall think, though the real reason I entrust to you. The Knights of the seven-kingdoms… especially those of the Reach pride themselves on being masters of the horse, but the Dothraki were wont to do the same, but they can, and have been routed by a host of camels. Horses cannot abide the beasts, and they are perfect for our own home, along with the weapons we possess. Dorne has no great army, but if we are to make a move, this would allow us to fight their cavalry on a more even footing, for I have heard that the Essosi consider one camel equivalent to six horses, though this may merely mean survivability, I do not want to squander a single advantage.” I spoke, the words flowing through me as the showmanship of Doran took center-stage.

Oberyn clasped his hands contemplatively as he sat on my bed, “Aye, you speak truly, Camels would be capable of being a match to the Reacher Cavalry, maybe even cause routs if they approach near, and we can further use them as transport in the Desert, making the Reachers further incapable of pursuing us. But, a question plagues me of their training. Yes, these men Morgan hires and Quentyn brings can see to, but where shall they ever get the experience to use this training? Do not mistake me, I have no doubt Qorgoyle for one would view Camels as a blessing, but these soldiers so vaunted of taking on horse cavalry, shall need actual experience to prove effective, and unless you mean to scour the Stepstones or have them fight in the disputed lands, I do not see where they shall gain this experience?”

I smiled, “This is where we press our advantage in securing an alliance with the North. A thousand men shall go to the wall, taking with them food supplies to do so, with the permission of the Iron Throne of-course. For six months they shall fight with the Watch against the wildlings, allowing for their experience to accumulate, as well as making the lords of the North bear a better disposition towards us. I would have you command this Camel Host, for the symbolic strengths this shall provide would further help our position there.” And I paused to see his reaction so far before continuing, at which he nodded.

“This in turn would cause other lords across the kingdoms to feel that they cannot be out-done by the ‘whore-mongers’ from Dorne, and send power to the Wall to do similar deeds. While our camel host would return, having gained valuable insight, these mighty lords will have entered a contest to determine whose sword is longer, seeking to out-do each other, while the lords of the North will be bemused at what they consider the queerness of Southrons. Do not mistake me, for I am not stupid, the two-humped camels, I have heard, are equally resilient to both cold as well as heat, making them valuable beasts for any terrain, and the Northern Lords would not copy us for dearth of funds, while the Southrons would not for believing it to be savagery, further pressing our Camel advantage, and when we make our move, a part of each region’s host would be beyond the wall, allowing us further power.” I finished.

Oberyn laughed, “You have thought long and deep about this brother, and I shall cede that this is no fancy born of madness, and I know you would have me covertly have words with the Lord Stark, that though he sought to hide the truth from the world, Dorne knows, for whatever happens in Dorne, is known to us in Dorne. Though I must ask, where do we have the coin for this?”

It was my turn to laugh as I spoke, “You must remember Jon Arryn gave Dorne concessions for a better part of a decade to our taxes, in his efforts to wash away the sins that Tywin Lannister and his dogs Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch had wrought, and that which the Usuper laughed at in satisfaction. This coupled with the contracts I have forged with Qarth and Yi Ti for the strange oil that we found when digging for wells, have allowed the treasury of Sunspear to over-flow to such an extent, I would say we are only a shade behind the Tyrells in terms of wealth, who themselves are a shade behind the wretched Lannisters, so do not worry, we have the coin.”

Oberyn stared at me, before speaking, “It would seem you have thought of everything again, big brother, as you always do. Then it shall be done, I shall go to Yronwood, from where I shall take your son, to the fleet you have prepared. I shall also explain to Lord Yronwood, as well as send a missive from there to Sandstone to Lord Qorgoyle so they shall meet with you. I shall send the letter to Morgan to do as you command, and when I reach Essos, I shall entrust the Yronwood boy to make sure Quentyn does not have flights of fancy, while I accost this cheesemonger if need be, or scour the Rhoyne as you said. I will send word to your estranged wife, Lady Mellario, for her father’s aid in helping dock the Dornish fleet until Morgan arrives with the camels, which would also allow for Quentyn to meet his mother yet again.”

I nodded again, and noted that his eyes were glimmering, “Aye, good, it seems good, though I would have you leave the other Targaryens be, for whatever plan Varys and this Mopatis have, may prove to be good for us. Oh and I would have you look at every child that accompanies the fleet, whether they be sailor’s waif, squire, or cupbearer, to see if they lack tongues, for my agents tell me that Varys’ little birds are these children who lack tongues. I would not have my plans be exposed so.”

As Oberyn nodded, and turned to leave the room, “Oberyn, there is one more thing.” I spoke.

Oberyn glanced sideways to look at me while I spoke, “Get me cherries, lots of them.” And he laughed loudly and truly, saying “It will be done, Doran.”

As the Red Viper left my chambers, Areo walked in and with him, he brought in a teenager, who I mused to be my daughter, Princess Arianne. While it was strange for me to consider someone I was only four years older to in my world, my daughter, it would seem whatever remnants of Doran existed, firmly ensconced the belief that she was my child to me.

“Come, child, I would have you be seated for what I would tell you.” And I hoped that she did not bear the same level of resentment she did as in Feast for Crows. But playing the dutiful daughter, she took a seat on the bed, in the same spot as her uncle.

I spoke, “It has come to my attention, Arianne that I have been neglecting to groom you to succeed me as heir” at which I noticed her eyes dart up to stare into my face with a glimmer in them. Ignoring this momentarily, I soldiered on, “and I am shameful to tell you that it has been of design for a great while. Yes, I would have had Quentyn succeed, but not because I wanted you to be set aside, but because I had a betrothal in plan for you.”

The girl… no, woman, spoke, “Who father? Grandison? Estermont? Rosby.” With venom lacing each word as they escaped her mouth, I raised my hands in a placating motion, making full use of my swollen joints to make her feel bad as I spoke, “No, all of the old lords were but a distraction, betrothals that would go nowhere so I could fully hide your own, true one. But it would seem fate has other plans in store, and that you will have to marry a young, robust lord, as the betrothal has fallen through.”

Arianne’s lip curled in what I supposed was confusion as she spoke, “Who was he?”, to which I responded, “The son of the Azure Emperor of Yin, Bu Gai, would have been your husband” I said, the lie coming to me easily, and the name coming from the economic documents. “But the lad, took with him a large fleet to explore Sothoryos, and as the thousands before him, was lost in the jungle.”

Arianne seemed moderately pleased at this, and had an expression of mollification too, “So you would have me be Empress of such a distant land, though I suppose it is a fate more desirable than cavorting with Rosby in his bed. Though since the heir is dead, who would you have me marry now? Willas Tyrell? Edmure Tully?”

At this, I was to scratch my own beard, “A heir and a heir, wed to my own heir? No, that would not be for the best, though Edmure Tully might not be a bad choice. If you were to look at the Tyrells I would point you at Willas’ younger brother Garlan, for second sons are more malleable than both first and third ones, as well as the fact that the youngest has a taste for men, and in specific, K… Lord Renly whom you tried to seduce years ago.”

She began to blush furiously at this, but I continued, “Aye, Dorne views me as complacent, but I have not been lax, Oberyn moves to do my bidding, though why he does what he does I will not tell you yet, for you are wont to gossip, and I cannot abide that. Though in good time, you must know, as well as your brothers. Now, child, I will give you two options of immediate worth, you will write a letter to Mace Tyrell, and ask him, in good-faith, to send Garlan Tyrell to Sunspear so you can get to know him well, or you will take a retinue to the Riverlands to meet Edmure Tully, though the latter I deem, the more risky choice, for your children stand to inherit both Dorne as well as the Riverlands, and I am not entirely keen on having a trout in the sands, for Edmure is reputed to be a brash man, who thinks little of the future. But I would have you make your own choice in this matter, for I have inadvertently treated you poorly, unlike in your childhood when you confided in me freely.”

The girl got up from the bed, and paced the room freely, at which I commanded Areo to get the servants to bring me some rice and vegetables so as to assuage my growing hunger, accompanied by cherries if we had any.

As I waited for her response, reading through some other files, she finally spoke, “Father, I would go to the Riverlands, for one, I have been trapped in Dorne for far too long, and the sights of the river-laden Riverlands greatly appeals to me. And Edmure is closer to my own age than Garlan, so I would treat with him first either way.”

At this I closed my eyes slowly and spoke, “So be it child, but you shall be courteous to Lord Hoster, for like me I believe his health is failing and you shall explain to him that I could not make the trip to discuss everything with him because of my own ill-health. I would have Oberyn accompany you, but he has matters of his own to see to, so I entrust to you to choose suitable companions of high-birth to take along with you to the Riverlands. And whatever you do, do not stop at Kings-Landing, for that is a pit of scum and villainy like no other, and the heir to Dorne being in the Usurper’s city is something our enemies would very much like to make so.”

At this the Princess nodded, and I sank onto my velvet-padded chair, thankful that I had made it past the first two problems. But I knew that treating with Yronwood and Qorgoyle would prove far more taxing, because unlike Arianne and Oberyn, they were not my family.


	2. Travels, Far and Farther

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn makes it to Pentos, while Arianne reaches the Riverlands.

**_The Red Viper_ **

_========================================_

Ever since Oberyn had been old enough to hold a spear, there had been an unspoken agreement between him and his elder brother about the roles they were to play. Doran had gone so far as to craft a metaphor for it, calling himself the grass, and Oberyn the serpent waiting to strike.

Oberyn had fully agreed with this, for there could be no other words sufficient to describe his relationship with his brother who was an entire decade elder to him, and so it had been for much of their shared history. When Edgar Yronwood had fought him and perished, it had been Doran who had pacified the Martells’ most powerful vassals, and exiled him, which he had initially taken to be an affront from his own beloved brother, but later realised that Doran had not only been pacifying the Yronwoods, but was yet again, looking out for him by allowing him to tour the Free Cities.

When Elia and her children has been brutalized by the beasts that were Tywin Lannister’s so called-bannermen, he had been prepared to declare for Viserys, bringing to bear the other fifteen thousand troops Dorne had at the time. But Doran had yet again interceded, and created peace and this time he had believed his brother had sunk too far into complacency.

He had walked into his brother’s solar then, and had nearly tied him up with a length of rope he had brought then and there, until he had looked into Doran’s eyes. There had been something in them that he had never seen before, and despite him already having cultivated a reputation for being deadly, dangerous and unpredictable, it had taken several dozen heartbeats before he realised that what he saw in Doran’s eyes was not complacency or docility, but sheer, unbridled fury. And he realised that if Doran had had the men at the moment, men enough to wage war against the other six kingdoms, Doran would have shown Robert Baratheon what “Ours is the Fury” truly resembled.

He had dropped the rope immediately then, and had bowed his head, near sinking it into his own torso for he had been overcome at the moment by powerful feelings of shame that he had ever considered that Doran would allow Elia’s brutalization to ever go unanswered. And Doran as if he had read his mind, spoke, spoke so softly it were nary a whisper, but carrying beneath it a dangerous sense of rage and venom, “We shall have it, Vengeance, Justice, Fire and Blood, but no, not yet. Not now. Elia would not want us to throw our own lives away to avenge hers. She would want us to win, and grind their bones to a fine paste. So we shall wait.”

And he had agreed to wait, and had agreed to Jon Arryn’s terms, and the rest of Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, truly believed Doran were weak. As the years had passed, he had followed Doran’s occasional instructions, but did not see what it were he was attempting to do; and so began to harbour treasonous thoughts that perhaps Doran had truly grown complacent after all

So when, Doran had taken ill nary near, two and a half months ago, he considered taking the reins of Dorne’s future himself, for he knew Arianne would not intercede. But as Doran woke, he had received a tight slap across his face if in words and not in deed. Doran had accumulated such knowledge about the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms at large, and at what to do there was truly little he could do but bow his head down again in shame after he had left the room.

It had taken this second lesson for him to realise that he and Doran were not truly Grass and Viper; no, he was the Spear, and Doran was the Sun of their sigil. Aye, the spear was a sign of war, of aggression, of fierce poise and finesse, quick in use and long-ranged. But the sun, the sun was all-encompassing, and appeared to be warm and a portent of good news, and Doran was so, yes, but the Sun was the Sun, mighty, implacable and it would burn those it deemed unworthy, and turn many into scorched corpses and bleached bones under its gaze if given enough time.

And so, he had set sail from Planky Town, with a strong fleet, near a month and a half back and with his nephew under him, to acquire the component that Doran desired, a strong contingent of camels. It had initially baffled him, but Doran’s reasoning had been beyond sound, and his own memories of Essos confirmed the same.

His musing while he paced the deck was interrupted by the memory of his nephew’s friend, and his old enemy’s grandson, Cletus Yronwood spoke to Quentyn quite loudly, “Prince Quentyn, I have heard that Camels can be fiery, temperamental creatures, perhaps your uncle can take to calling himself the Red-Camel then? Or would the Humped-Viper suffice?” And at this jape, Cletus, and the Drinkwater knight, Gerris had erupted in loud laughter.

His own nephew he had noticed, sheepishly smiled, perhaps confused at how to react at this jape of his own Uncle. Oberyn however, eyed the Yronwood, who he noted was quite handsome, and randy, and spoke, his voice easily carrying over the laughter of boys, “If only Camels bore the fangs and venom as Vipers, I dare say any remaining Dragons would run-askance to the deepest reaches of Sothoryos. Sadly, I must keep my moniker as a Viper, lest those in the Seven Kingdoms……. And those in Dorne forget how I came by it.”

At this the boy promptly shut his mouth, his face curling into a frown, no doubt recalling how his grandfather had died at Oberyn’s hands. Gerris Drinkwater for one, erupted in laughter yet again, while Quentyn smiled the same sheepish grin yet again, this time no doubt at his good friend being the subject of the taunt. Was ever a Martell so passive?

Well, as the memory faded again, he could only hope that Quentyn’s passivity would erode once he met his lady mother in Norvos, as they’d parted ways in Lys only two weeks back. They’d made near record time, as strong winds were at their back, propelling them to Essos with phenomenal speed, allowing him a bit of leeway in sampling the pleasure houses of the Lysene. The Boy would no doubt be making his way to, or through the Rhoyne, from where he would go through its little daughter, the Noyne, before finally stopping at the many wharves of Norvos to wait for Morgan and his contingent of camels to arrive from the city of the Black Goat, Qohor. If the Lady Mellario had any say, she’d be coddling her son with feasts, sweets, and Norvoshi consorts too, provided the bells of the city rang appropriately.

Oberyn himself however, was heading to Pentos, with the seven ships his brother had told him to take with him, for he much desired to talk with the magister, Illyrio Mopatis and if fate were with him he would find out the truth about the Aegon the Sixth the cheesemonger harboured. If it turned out that the boy and his guardian griffin were not in Pentos, he would merely delay his return to Westeros for a few more weeks as he sailed south and scoured the Rhoyne though he harboured no illusions that Doran would not be cross with him for doing so, though the good time they’d made might cover for the same.

As much as he’d wanted to cross-sample a variety of consorts from Lys, there had been a fire lit in him at what he was set to do, and so after only a day of whoring, they’d set sail for Pentos, and the same queer, powerful wind remained at their back and the captain had told him they’d expected to pull into Pentos today.

As impatience gnawed at him inside, he resorted to japing with the soldiers, as well as sparring with his eldest daughter, Obara who had accompanied him on the journey. She was near almost as good as him with the spear, which he took a fierce pride in, despite the disapproval of Dornish Lords and Ladies alike.

He’d sired her when he was only ten and five on an Oldtown Whore, and she’d chosen him over her mother when he had come to claim her, which he mused had been for the best, as Rose, as the whore was named had drank herself to death within the year.

As he waited in his cabin for another hour, biding his time as he could, he noticed a change in the air, as the saltiness of the sea had been replaced with a warmer wind, with the barest hints of spices and wines. Smelling so, he made his way to the prow of the ship, and gazed ahead at what was before him.

The sunlight glimmered off deep water as he observed the large cities of Pentos, the fishing boats across the bay, and the masts of moored ships. He observed square brick towers, a great red temple, and a distant manse upon a hill. The city itself was a grand gathering of tiled rooftops, he mused, as most, if not all of the buildings had them perched atop their heads.

It didn’t take long before his small flotilla of ships docked at one of the many empty mooring points of the Norvoshi beachhead, and as he moved to disembark, followed by his daughter as well as fifteen guards, they were stopped at the base of the gangplank by what was clearly a Pentosi Customs official who was trailed by a larger, bald clean-shaven man, as well as two guards bearing the sigil of the Pentosi Prince.

The thin, wiry man, with his auburn beard forked and his long braided hair dyed an obscene purple, cleared his throat as he spoke, “Good day, to you, I have the fortune to be Nakys Hartelion of the Office of Customs of Pentos. And as my post dictates, I must ask you as to what business do you have in Pentos, Westerosi? In addition, if you have any items of trade to be declared, please make note of that to my assistant here, so the appropriate duties can be paid.”   
  


Oberyn raised an eyebrow, before speaking in a long drawl, “Hartelion… I must wonder, are the Pentosi afflicted by a disease that ravages the eye? A babe could tell I am no merchant, but as you are one from the Free Cities, I cannot think ill of this and so I shall tell you that I am Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. “

The thin man raised his dyed eyebrows ever so slightly before speaking, “Apologies, My Prince, but Prince or not, there are certain customs we must follow. And I would still have you answer as to what your business in our city is?”

Oberyn laughed at this, but his eyes glinted with something else entirely, “I would say I am here because I am hungry, no? Oh yes, very hungry, but alas the food I desire cannot be purchased here, and despite this disappointment, I decided to come here in the grand city of Pentos to meet one of its illustrious magisters, Illyrio Mopatis because my elder brother, the ruler of Dorne, wishes to form a…. relationship of trade with the magister.”

The man nodded, despite visibly expressing confusion at Oberyn’s statement, “Very well, I shall send word to the good magister that a Prince of Dorne wishes an audience with him. In the mean-time, I suggest you find lodgings in a good quality inn in the city. I believe the Sarnori Cat is suitable for those of your stature. I wish you a good stay in Pentos, Prince Oberyn.”

The man turned to leave, but Oberyn tossed a Gold Dragon at him, which despite his nature, he caught swiftly out of the air. The official nodded his thanks, and his assistant gave instructions on how to reach the Sarnori Cat to the captain of the guard.

While Oberyn very much wished to break into the magister’s manse and interrogate him at spear-point, there was no doubt that it would prove to be a difficult affair, as well as risk drawing the ire of Pentos onto Dorne, which he knew his elder brother would most definitely scold him for.

And so he spent the rest of the day in the luxurious inn, which was more an oversized villa than an inn if anything, fitting in with the absurd proportions that Essosi followed in all they did. As the daylight faded to black, and the sounds of hawkers and traders were replaced with lamp-lights across the city, Oberyn turned fitfully in his bed, unable to sleep for he knew that he may or may not find Elia’s babe tomorrow.

And so, the night turned to daylight yet again, and the servants in the inn drew a bath for him, which he descended into, almost mechanically, and rose, yet again in the same fashion, after he’d completed the required tribulations.

Dressing in his rich garb, he slung his spear over his back, with a cloth wound tightly around the tip, covering it from view. And so, his party moved through the city, escorted by a few guards the Magister had sent to them, with his own Dornishmen following behind.

As they navigated their way through streets filled with hawkers, beggars, sellswords, and those who were slaves in all but name, Oberyn wondered what the involvement of Illyrio Mopatis could entail, and how he was connected to the Spider.

They finally made their way to a large set of brick walls twelve feet high, spike tops perched atop them, a tad too shiny for his own liking. At the first gate they passed, he only saw fat Unsullied, no doubt too used to not doing anything; at the second, they were greeted with what seemed to be hardened sellswords, but it was at the third one that gave him pause.

Just beyond it, he could hear the din of dogs barking themselves hoarse, but they did not concern him half-so-much as the soldiers that flanked either sides of the gate. These Unsullied were unlike their fat brethren at the first, still retaining the hard-looks of all those who ever passed the trials of the slave-masters of Astapor, and whose Spiked Hats perfectly emulated those atop the gates.

Despite the enormity of the mansion, he could still look around and note that there were more of these Unsullied littered about the manse. He cursed internally, for he knew that if they had to fight their way out of here, it would be a near-impossible task. But he maintained his swagger, as they passed a marble pool, which had at its center, a masterpiece carving of a boy, which he had to admit was quite lithe and handsome, poised to duel with a bravo blade in hand.

Further ahead, behind the manse, he could make out an extensive garden, and as Obara spoke, “If there ever was a Harrenhal of Mansions, this would deserve the title.”, he chuckled and nodded too, for that was true enough, the mansion had grotesque dimensions. They were snakes in a mammoth’s lair, but he could hope that the Mammoth bore knowledge about a certain dragon.

As they passed through painted galleries and under arched columns, a young girl, of scarce ten-and-six came upto them, and bowed, nay, near prostrated herself before them before speaking, “Prince Oberyn of Dorne, please follow me, the good Magister has granted you an audience at the table. I bid you follow me soon, though the good Magister had bid me to tell you that he shall take no offense if you wish to partake of his hospitality today and meet with him on the morrow.” And at this, the girl flit fully tugged at her own dress, as if she were trying to seduce him.

Oberyn eyed her, and as he observed her for half a heart-beat, her mannerisms were a dead give-away that she was a whore, most probably trained along the hundreds he had seen in their short stop-over at Lys. Nay, he was not a great player of the game, but what Illyrio was trying to do was obvious to even him, the magister meant to have the slave….. servant-girl seduce him for his purpose here so Illyrio could plan accordingly. No, this would not do.”

“No….” he spoke in a long drawl, “We must not keep the great cheesemonger waiting no? I would meet him now. Take me to his table.”

The girl bowed hastily, and she led their party forward, though another servant woman directed the Dornish guards behind him to partake of refreshments in a different room. As the captain looked to him for directions, he nodded, and the captain and the men followed the woman, while Obara and he, followed the girl.

Two dozen heartbeats later, they were greeted with a grotesquely fat man with a forked yellow beard reclining on an extremely large padded couch. His bed robe was large enough to serve as a tourney pavilion, and underneath it Oberyn could involuntarily see great heaps of flesh rise up and down rhythmically. This was Illyrio no doubt, and the Magister was feasting himself on Dornish Peppers and what appeared to be Apricots.

If nothing else, Oberyn could commend the man in his palate; when the large man spoke, “Come, Prince, come, take a seat on the chair, and the lovely maiden next to you can take the other one.

Oberyn merely inclined his head as a response, and he sat on the throne, which in the vein of everything else in the house, was obscenely large, cushioned and reinforced to an absurd degree so as to bear the weight of the immense man.

The Magister spoke, “Come, sup with me, Prince, it is not often that a Prince dines with Illyrio, for the Prince of Pentos has barred his gates to me, and I scarcely meet any other Princes.” The words warbled through the air as Illyrio bit into a juicy Apple.

Oberyn narrowed his eyes at this, ‘scarcely’ could very well mean that he was only meeting Aegon, but if apples were dragons, and miss-spoken words truth, then the Fossoways would have conquered Valyria, and so he kept his peace for the moment.

“Aye, Magister Mopatis, I shall sup with you, for we have much to discuss” and hearing so, the fat man clapped and the servants jumped at the cue and began placing a large variety of dishes in front of him.

They began with a broth of squid and lamprey, and cold egg-lime soup as well. Then came large pheasants in honey, haunches of goat, fattened goose livers drowned in the exotic green wines of Yi Ti and a large suckling pig. The sight of it surprised Oberyn, for he was used to spicier fare, and almost as if reading his mind, a servant brought forth small bottles in which shredded peppers were present so as to spice the dishes appropriately.

Showering the broth with a good length of these pepper flakes, he found that whoever had cooked it, surely knew their business. As he grabbed a portion of the goat, the magister finally spoke, “It is not often that I am caught unawares of what my guest wishes of me, especially when you come from the reclusive Kingdom of Dorne.”

Oberyn dipped his hand in the warm watered bowl filled with lemon, and wiped it on a handkerchief provided before answering, “Truly? I would imagine being good friends with one such as Varys would grant you knowledge about a wide variety of subjects? Or is the Spider merely a gnat?”

The atmosphere at the table changed, and the large magister shifted in his couch, and stared at him as if appraising who he was dealing with. The Magister then spoke, “I am afraid I am not so close to the Master of Whisperers of Robert Baratheon’s court as you may…”  
  


Oberyn cut him off, “Yes, yes, you two are as close to each other as a lizard-lion and a Lengii princess, that is to say, not at all. But I must wonder, if two people are not so close, what business do they have in working together in smuggling my sister’s babe out of King’s Landing and replacing it with a Pisswater Prince, no? A curious state of affairs when my supposedly deceased nephew is somehow fostered with a Griffin who drank himself to death.” He finished, with a stare of pure vehemence plastered on his face.

The large man looked at him yet again, as if finally understanding he did not have the advantage of knowledge here-in. The man clapped, and this time servants brought in a peacock stuffed with figs, veal cutlets blanched with almond milk, creamed tuna, candied onions, strange cheeses, and a large swan with all its plumage. After the swan had arrived, the man spoke, softly, “It would seem… Prince Doran has not been idle all these years. To think Varys thought him indolent too.”

Oberyn cocked his head before speaking again, “You would say you know nothing of our pact to wed Arianne Martell to Viserys Targaryen?”

The large Magister was completely taken unaware at this, evidenced by his eyebrows disappearing into the mop of his air, and his forked beard near standing stiff as a mast. “No… Varys’ little birds never knew this either, though I shall tell you we know of your other Nephew going to Norvos.”

Oberyn seized the words spoken, and spoke “Very well, it makes no matter, the former pact is broken, and though I doubt even the Targaryens themselves knew of it. Willem Darry, the Sealord were the only other witnesses, and one of them lies buried, and the other would think Darry informed the Targaryens. But even so, Doran has broken the pact; for his own agents tell him that Viserys is his father come again, and he would not suffer his daughter suffer the same depredations of a mad king that our sister was forced to.”

The man stroked his beard, in contemplation of Oberyn’s words, before speaking, “Very well. It would seem as if Dorne has speared its way into our plans, and such extensive knowledge being spread would very well unravel them, as your brother no doubt would if you didn’t leave my manse alive and hale.”

The man’s gaze was almost mournful as he continued, “Such plans we had…. But come, you shall meet your nephew, the last of Princess Elia Martell’s issue, and in turn I believe it is time we begin a lines of communication with Prince Doran.”

The man spoke something loudly, in the bastard dialect of Valyrian the Pentosi used, and no more than three-dozen heartbeats later, Oberyn spied two men approach the table, with their common feature being that their hair was dyed a startling blue.

As they came into proper view, Oberyn observed the older man to be in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with a lined, leathery face. Crow’s eyes pulled at the corners of his pale, blue eyes, but the dye job was almost sloppy, for the man’s eyebrows were still red, and his red roots clearly showed. He was wearing a red wolf-skin cloak to complement his disguise, but Oberyn was not fooled, he had visited Aerys’ court enough to remember Jon Connington’s features.

The younger man…. _Boy_ …. He supposed, appeared to be no more than ten-and-five, and his hair was dyed in the same garish blue as the Griffin lord, but his features were anything but the same. The boy’s eyes were a deep blue, which he could have mistaken for indigo or purple if the light had danced correctly. Though the boy’s eyebrows and eyelashes had been dyed blue as well, Oberyn’s trained eyes could easily make out the silver-gold at the roots of the hair on his head. But the same could be said for half a hundred Volantene noble, and so Oberyn peered with even more focus.

Aye, there was no mistaking it, the jaw, the thin eyebrows and the sharp-nose, were all his sister’s features and he would know, for they had been the closest of siblings in the Water Gardens.

And the boy spoke, confidence laced in his words, “I bid you a good day, Uncle,”

To which Oberyn responded, half-joking, half-raging, “I had heard you were dead.”

The boy did not falter in his response, good, “I was replaced with a tanner’s boy for a jug of Arbor Gold, and so I was spirited across the Narrow Sea to the custody of my father’s good friend, Lord Connington.”

Oberyn grimaced at this, “Doran told me much the same and his agents have found a great deal more that I do not think fit to repeat to you. No, it is better you learn for yourself from Doran, for Doran sent me here, in his own words, to ascertain whether you were a mummer’s Dragon, a lost Blackfyre, or my own nephew, and since I have found out it is the latter, you shall have to come to Sunspear… for Doran’s plans may have to change with the truth, and he would keep you close, if only for a little while.”

The Magister and the Griffin Lord shouted half-intelligible sounds of shock and rejection, and Oberyn knew, there was much that he would have to wrangle with both of them for.

**_The Princess of Dorne_ **

_========================================_

Their journey had been largely uneventful. Despite her father’s wording initially indicating that he meant for Arianne and those who accompanied her to traverse the distance over land, after his discussion with the Lords Yronwood and Qorgoyle, he had found it more prudent to exchange ravens not only with Riverrun but also with Seagard, so as to make as much haste as possible.

Why this was the case, and why he had not meant for her to traverse the distance via ship in the first place she didn’t know. But she could scarcely care. While Uncle Oberyn’s fleet had slithered away in the cover of dark from Planky Town, her own departure had been from Starfall at the mouth of the Torrentine to land at the West Coast seat of the Mallisters, Seagard.

Apart from the odd whale, their flotilla had seen none of any interesting sights, whether they be krakens, leviathans, sea dragons, or ironborn reavers, though a boy on the crow’s nest swore he saw a whale far larger than any other and claimed it was a leviathan.

Her companions were drawn from all over Dorne, handpicked even, by her father, to signify that Dorne was finally waking up, if only for a prospective marriage. Ashara Qorgoyle, Cyrenna Uller, Gwyneth Allyrion, Allyria Dayne and Jynessa Blackmont, were those noble-born of great note who accompanied her, with Jynessa being the heir-proper to House Blackmont as well. House Gargalen was wont to send their own heir, Mariah as well, but unforeseen circumstances prevented them from doing so.

Regardless, it was a powerful party that accompanied her, the heiress of Dorne, and Lord Jason Mallister had spared no expense in hosting them, no doubt at the behest of his liege lords of Tully. They followed the Blue Fork of the Trident, downwards, towards Riverrun, and all the way Arianne mused what life might have been as the Empress of Yi TI.

A supposedly fabulously wealthy country with a thousand god-princes, and more, with the Emperor’s mere palace stretching the length of King’s Landing, it would be a post far more exciting, and yet wrought with danger than almost anything in Westeros. But Maester Caleotte at Sunspear had read her the histories of the world at large well enough, and this included the fact that the power of the Emperor of Yi Ti was waning, due to two more having popped up.

Regardless, the lost heir of Yi Ti mattered little, no doubt consumed by whatever ghouls inhabited the jungles of Sothoryos. _Perhaps Sothoryos should have been burned by the Valyrians when they still lived, a desolate desert is better than that devilish jungle_ she mused to herself.

Eventually, they came to Riverrun, and Arianne could do little to avoid gasping, a sentiment shared by much of her companions. Though the Tully castle was not a tenth the size of Harrenhal, there was an incredibly queer beauty of seeing a castle situated amidst the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, ready to be turned into an unassailable island bastion for the Trouts if needed.

She only knew of the Greenblood to be of any similar size to these rivers, and there was no castle on the Greenblood, though some ships of the Orphans were as grand as small manses. As their party trotted their horses through the northern gate, she continued to admire the red sandstone walls which rose sheer from the water, and the towers that commanded the opposite shores.

Castles like these were a rarity in Dorne, not the norm as it were in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. As the party broached further, guardsmen wearing fish-crest helms presented their swords in a manner of respect, and she spied a stable-boy curiously observe them from the top of a crenellation. She could imagine living here, yes, with children of her own.

Her inner reverie was interrupted, by a knight of stocky build approaching towards them, from one of the towers, _Who could this be?_ She mused, before coming to the conclusion, _With hair as red as that, this one can only be my prospective husband._

The man flashed her a cheeky smile, which she coyly returned, before speaking, “In the name of my Lord Father, Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord of Riverrun, I, his heir and son, Ser Edmure Tully, bid the party of Princess Arianne Martell, heir to Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne, a warm welcome. The servants shall guide you to suitable lodgings, and I bid you shall all partake of bread and salt.”

She responded, “In the name of my Lord Father, Prince Doran, I, Arianne Martell, heir to the Princedom of Dorne, thank you, Ser Edmure for your welcome. We shall gladly partake of your bread and salt to affirm guest right under the eyes of the gods.”

As she dismounted her horse, a servant-girl came up to her, a pretty little thing, if frightened by her, the foreign princess. She took the soft loaf of bread in her hand, and tore a piece of it carefully, before sprinkling the salt from the cup over it, and biting into it daintily. The little girl seemed relieved, and took off to provide it to the other members of the party, with another three girls following her in succession.

Edmure spoke again, his deep blue eyes staring into her own long, dark ones. _Running my hands through his beard and calling him Husband is a suitable enough proposition, I suppose,_ she thought, as Edmure’s words carried, “Princess Arianne, It is no doubt that your journey has been long, and that you all must be tired, the servants shall guide you to your lodgings where I bid you partake of refreshments before joining me and my Lord Father in the Great Hall for the feast in your honour.”

Arianne suppressed her mirth at this, at finally having a suitable husband, though she supposed, if the betrothal was fixed, that would mean no more cavorting under the sheets with the odd stranger who caught her eye. She responded, “I thank you, Ser Edmure, my companions, Lady Ashara of Sandstone, Lady Cyrenna of Hellholt, Lady Gwyneth of Godsgrace, Lady Allyria of Starfall and Lady Jynessa of Blackmont and I shall be glad to partake of the hospitality of Riverrun and Lord Hoster.”

Satisfied at this, the red trout nodded, and her party took this cue to follow the servants to their lodgings. Her own room was a fine one, with a grand view of the rivers she could truly appreciate. Ashara and Gwyneth were to be her ladies-in-waiting for the day, and after all of them had partook of the baths the servants had drawn, she bid them select a dress that would complement her allure well enough, but would not risk to offend the sensibilities of the Riverlanders.

Before long, Ashara and Gwyneth were in agreement as they spoke, “Princess, we believe this green dress would bring out your beauty but still remain nuanced enough so as to not cause any consternation.” And Arianne found herself agreeing, as they further picked out a pair of pearl-earrings with tourmaline inlaid within them, and a slender wristband with a ruby inlaid on it for her right arm along with the rings she bore, a gift from her Lady Mother. They also bid her wear a simple platinum necklace for anything else would be too garish, and along with the same a slender bronze circlet with topaz gems inlaid along its length. Though she wanted to wear a nose-ring to accompany the circlet, Gwyneth spoke in the negative, “No, Princess, we want Ser Edmure to be bewitched by your face, and the Riverlanders are not fond of nose-rings if what my mother told me is true. The ring would appear to be garish.”

And so Arianne found herself agreeing, as she looked in the mirror to see herself look stunning, in the green dress of Myrish Silk, with the assorted jewellery upon her bodice. She gently sprayed a Myrish perfume upon herself, a subtle blend of fruit, bergamot, blood orange and pimento with a heart of Cinnamon, Rose, Carnation, and woody notes, upon a base of Amber and Vanilla, a powerful fragrance which was alluring but not pungent.

Within the hour, she found herself in the Great Hall, with herself seated at the high table alongside Lord Hoster and Edmure, with Ashara and Gwyneth accompanying her. There was an intense buzz along the length of the hall, from those dining at the lower tables to the common tables for men-at-arms and sworn knights. She ate and drank sparingly over the next two hours, choosing instead to talk with Lord Hoster and Edmure.

Lord Hoster was tall and broad, with blue eyes and brown hair, though the muscles of his youth have given away to his portliness. But his hair was still streaked with hair, and despite his attempting to compose himself, there were clear signs that his strength had begun to wane, with the flesh under his arms hanging slightly loosely. _Father is a decade younger to him, and both their situations are almost the same,_ and she felt a pang of pity for her own father.

The Lord Paramount of the Trident spoke then, leaning over to her, “Princess, while it may be unseemly of me to say this, I seeked to wed my son to you four years ago, and Prince Doran rejected the offer then. So I must ask, what made him change his mind?”

Though the lord’s tone was jovial, she could hear the undercurrent of slightly offended pride, and knew she had to assuage the same, “My father bids his apologies to you, Lord Hoster, and he would not seek to hide the truth from you. I was bid to marry the son of the Azure Emperor from Yi Ti, a queer notion at face to be sure, but Yi Ti is fabulously rich, and my own mother was a Lady from Norvos, so there was precedence in Sunspear to foreign marriages. And for the same, my brother Quentyn was to be groomed to be heir, but the foolish Prince-ling, set out upon a doomed journey to Sothoryos and was lost, and so my Father has decided to take a stronger hand in the ruling of Dorne, for he has realised such betrothals would only alienate the rest of Westeros, and he would seek to make amends for any insult that the former rejection might have placed at your feet.”

Lord Hoster seemed satisfied, if a bit miffed, before speaking, “Very well, I can see the merit, lest I be called a hypocrite. My daughters are wed to the Warden of the East and North respectively, and to be Empress no doubt trumps being the Lady Wife of the Paramount of the Trident. Though I am glad that Prince Doran sees the merit of my proposal now, I wonder why he has not made the trip to the Riverlands with you. Surely a father must give his daughter away?”

She spoke quickly, but composed all the same, “My father was afflicted by an attack of the gout, Lord Hoster, and he bade me to apologise to you on his behalf for not making the journey. My own Uncle Oberyn tours the free cities, or he would have accompanied me as a chaperone, I hope that you do not consider their absence an affront?”

Hoster looked at her for a while, before sighing and speaking, “It would seem Prince Doran and I share more than just a desire to see our heirs wed. I fear I too find myself feeling my age weighing on me. But of the matter of heirs…” Hoster trailed off, before continuing, “Yes, I apologise, though this may seem unseemly to ask of you, but I must know, any children of yours and Edmure stand to inherit both Dorne as well as the Riverlands, a conundrum I hope Prince Doran has an answer for?”

She nodded, “Yes indeed, a first-born son of mine would stand to rule the Riverlands, while the second-born, whether a daughter or a son stands to rule Dorne. If my first-born is a daughter, she shall ascend to the throne of Dorne, while the second-born, if a son stands to ascend to the seat that is yours and will be Ser Edmure’s after.”

Hoster raised an eyebrow at this before speaking, “And if the second-born or both were daughters?”

She laughed and said, “As in your own children’s case, the third-born would rise, while the second-born shall help her sister in the courtly duties of Dorne as an advisor.”

Hoster laughed too, a loud, hearty laugh, though it did not carry over the din of the table, Edmure turned from his talk to his companion, Marq Piper, heir to Pinkmaiden, and smiled sheepishly at her for making his father laugh. “Yes, Princess, a fine situation, though now I suppose, I must retire to my bed, I fear I have drank too much of the fine Dornish Red you brought to Riverrun. Though I request that you talk to Edmure of your own, tonight…. He can be a….” Lord Hoster thought for a moment to find the words, “a handful if need be. I shall have Ser Piper to accompany you as chaperones, and you may choose one of your good ladies to do the same as well.”

As the hall rang with roars of toasts for Lord Hoster, led by his son as he retired to his bed, she decided that she would choose Lady Allyria for her chaperone for the moment. Though she knew herself to be enflamed with passion at times, more often than not, tonight could not be the same, and the Stony Dornishwoman from Starfall would ensure no acts of impropriety occurred.

As they, walked under the trees of the godwood, under the silver, swollen moon, she could hear the gentle whispers of Allyria and the blonde Piper heir talk to each other so as to not interrupt their own talks, though she harboured no illusions as to the fact that they would be keeping an eye on her all the same.

Edmure was flushed red she observed, but thankfully, he had only drank two cups at most, and so was able to talk to her quite normally, “Princess” his baritone voice rang, and she gazed up at him, being as she was only five feet and two inches like her lady mother before her. “I will not lie, though my father may curse me for a brazen fool. There is no maiden half-so-beautiful as you that I have ever laid eyes upon. And I would be honoured to take you for a lady wife.”

She laughed loudly at this, more in good faith than amusement, though she thought, _Not a maiden Ser, though my father would say my seal came undone after horse-riding, as can be the case across the Kingdoms for those lords who grant their daughters more liberties than most._ “I could say the same of you, Ser Edmure, you are comely as they come, though I shall admit, I do not know how Riverland lordlings look like in general.”

And at this, for a moment it would seem Edmure would frown, but then he too began to laugh, “I shall thank you, though Piper would call me a tongue-tied fool. I shall admit to my faults for I would not have you discover them in a moment of my weakness, I cannot guarantee that I shall always be faithful to you, but you shall always have my confidence and my protection, and I shall hope I shall have yours, if we are to wed, whether that shall be in Riverrun or in Sunspear.”

She laughed, her husky voice ringing through the air, “I am of Dorne, Ser, there are certain understandings those of us Salty Dornishmen know.” She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “I shall admit if we are to wed, and you are to be unfaithful, I would not be averse to sharing the bed with the woman you choose to consort with.”

At this, Edmure began laughing louder, “Very well, then for the same, I think…. No I know, for something tells me, that I shall find no reason to prove unfaithful to you despite my admission of my own shortcomings.”

“Truly?” she spoke, her head cocked sideways inquisitively, though her eyes expressed amusement and a very minute disappointment.

“Truly” the Trout spoke, before gently squeezing her hand, and planting a chaste kiss upon her cheeks.

And for once, Arianne thought, as Allyria coughed loudly, and they continued their walk in the airy garden, elms, redwoods and wildflowers and tiny streams meandering past them, _Father shall see me happy again after all._ And thinking so, she continued talking, laughing and walking with Ser Edmure, the sight of the sad-face upon the heart-tree not giving her pause for even a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very well, I believe I can get to the first different perspective in the next chapter. Though I'm still at odds whether it should be Stannis or someone else.


	3. The Sun Waxes 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Throne secures its interests, and a Wolf meets a Viper.

**_The Master of Ships_ **

_========================================_

“And so the revenue from the South has been nominal, as it has been in the past few years, though I must bring to notice to my fellow council members that Dorne has paid an additional four and a half thousand Dragons, citing that they are appropriate fees in accordance to King Maekar the 1st’s Doctrine about Essosi Imports to the Iron Throne.” Droned Petyr Baelish, the small sly lord, Stannis trusted no more than he could throw him, pacing over the richly furnished Council Chamber’s many Myrish carpets.

Baelish stopped, standing in front of one of the hundred fabulous beasts of bright paints from the Summer Islander screen that adorned the walls, and Stannis noted that it was a Wyrm from Valyria, a queer beast said to be much akin to a Dragon, but without the wings and no love for men. And unlike the Dragons, Wyrms craved precious metals, often making their nests in rich gold veins. A coincidence like no other, for Stannis was no craven believer in god-driven portents and baseless superstitions.

Though the words spoken by the Master of Coin interested him somewhat, there was always the nagging sensation in the back of his mind that Littlefinger as the Lord of the Fingers was called could very well drive the realm into ruin.

And beside him, Renly laughed, _Simpering Fool_ Stannis thought to himself, as his younger brother spoke, “What even are the Dornish importing from Dorne? Lysene whores to satiate Prince Oberyn?” adjusting the buttons on his dark green velvet garments, and playing with the cloth-of-gold half cape that he draped upon himself like a Volantene nobleman.

And at this, Stannis grinded his teeth as he spoke, “If Prince Oberyn wished to cavort with whores, I have little doubt that he would be the one going to Lys, and not the other way around. For slaves are forbidden in Westeros by law, unless the High Septon has crafted an exception for Dorne.” And Littlefinger continued to smile at them all, with an expression very akin to insolence plastered on it.

Renly turned, and gave a look towards Stannis, an odd mixture of amusement and what seemed to be pity, _I do not want your pity, fool,_ he thought, as he grinded his teeth, at which the doddering Grand Maester took to be his cue to speak, “Lord Renly, though Prince Oberyn’s tendencies are known to the realm at large, I would thoroughly doubt he would do anything of the sort. It is Prince Doran who rules Dorne, not his brother… and Doran is a cautious man who weighs every action. He would not draw the ire of the realm by purchasing slaves.”

Stannis nodded at this, Lannister puppet the Grand Maester may be, but he occasionally made sense enough, though Stannis mused that Cressen was far more suited for the purpose. And thinking so, Stannis spoke, “Lord Varys, you are the Master of Whisperers, while Lord Baelish is concerned merely with the appropriate taxes, as any Master of Coin should be, I suppose, it is in our interests to know, what exactly are these… Essosi products, Dorne is importing?”

The fat, bald, eunuch, giggled momentarily, his nose tittering obscenely from an adverse reaction to one of the dozen perfumes he bore, before speaking, “Imported my lord, a moon’s turn past. It would seem they have been lax in producing the fees. Though… Dorne is a poor nation, mayhaps they took so long in gathering the dragons for the same?” The words were laced with a coyness Stannis misliked. If it had been upto him, Varys and Pycelle both would have seen their heads upon the walls of the Red Keep once Robert had won the throne, but it had not been so, and to Stannis, their loyalties would always be in doubt.

Renly for one began laughing loudly, and Pycelle had a bemused expression upon his face, seated as he was on his tall chair at the foot of the table, while Baelish has the slightest hint of a laugh pulling at his lips. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Barristan Selmy however, had a frown on his face, and it would seem the White cloak he bore too did not like the jape, as it fluttered stiffly.

Selmy’s reaction for one was that which Stannis could understand, seeing as how some of his former brothers had been from Dorne. Barristan was more often than not, excluded from any Small Council meetings, as he had slain near a dozen of Robert’s friends on the battle of the Ruby Ford; but the Hand, Jon Arryn, had requested his presence, though the falcon himself was missing for the moment, having informed the rest of the council, he would be there with the king. _Fat chance of that,_ Stannis thought.

He grinded his teeth yet again, before speaking, “Very well, it may be so, but what are these imports?” At which the heavily perfumed eunuch bobbed his head up and down before speaking, “My little birds tell me Prince Doran has taken a fancy to breeding Camels, mayhaps his brother’s correspondence with the heir to Highgarden has worn off on him? It is said Willas breeds Horses, as I’m sure Lord Renly’s squire could confirm?”

Stannis had never forgiven the Tyrells for what they had done, though he supposed they had merely been doing their duty to their King, but Renly had chosen the youngest Tyrell to be his squire, and that rankled Stannis, not to mention that there were unsavoury rumours about the court that their relationship was something unnatural. Renly for one, had a frown on his face instead of the smile he generally bore, before speaking, “Yes, Loras occasionally tells me of his brothers, and he says Willas breeds hawks and horses.”

Stannis interceded before Renly could go on a long-winded speech about the virtues of Willas Tyrell, and spoke, “Camels? I am afraid I am not familiar with this animal.” And as he was glancing at the empty King’s seat, padded as it was cushions emblazoned with the Crowned stag, he knew Renly would try to make a jape about his lack of knowledge about a topic as strange as that of a camel.

Varys, however, chose the path of haste, as he responded, “The humped, tall animals, my Lord. They are said to be highly resistant to the conditions of the desert, and are capable of going several days without food and water. From my memories of Essos, some merchants used to claim they could even consume the water of the sea, and could withstand even the dust-devils that the autumns in deserts bring. Mayhaps Prince Doran wants a superior animal for Dorne than the sand-steeds for the autumn or winter that may follow the end of the Long Summer?”

Stannis mused this, contemplating the same, and he seemed to find the answer acceptable. Yes, sand-steeds perhaps were endurant enough for a day or two, but whatever god or facet of nature had shaped the camel had chosen their home to be the desert, like the home for the Baratheons to be Storm’s End.

The Grand Maester interrupted before Stannis could make word of his observation, obscenely running hands through his long, white beard, causing his two dozen heavy chains to jingle with a cacophony, “Yes… in the reign of King Maekar, when I was but a young lad at Old-town, there was a summer near as long as our own… the smallfolk then, as they are now, were of the mind that it was the Endless Summer come to life, but their hopes were dashed when there came an unnaturally harsh Autumn, and a long winter. Though the summer that is now, has been for a longer period than even King Maekar’s summer… I seem to remember that a Maester from Dorne sent tidings at the time, to the Citadel that there were several storms in the Deserts of Dorne, mayhaps Prince Doran wishes to care for his people with the purchase of these hardy animals?”

Stannis nodded, all but ready to dismiss the issue and press on to the next, when Baelish spoke, “Perhaps this is so… King Maekar’s addition to his forefather Jaehaerys the Conciliator’s import laws, stipulated that the import of any breeding pair of any animal that is not a horse, or live-stock, faces a charge of 1 gold coin.” If nothing else, the Littlefinger knew the Little details of the economy, though how little his loyalty was a question that none posed.

Renly spoke, “So Dorne has purchased nine thousand camels? Looks like Prince Doran is concerned for the small-folk to an extreme extent if he is willing to flood Dorne with camels, rather than plant more crops.” Before erupting in laughter a second time, at what he no doubt considered to be a jape worthy of the ages.

While Stannis was about to scold his brother, the unexpected happened, Barristan spoke, in the quiet voice the Lord Commander used, his snow-white vambraces glistening under the sunlight,“If my Lords shall listen?” to which Stannis found himself nodding his head, “In the War of the Ninepenny Kings, there was a sell-sword company with a fear-some reputation that were fond of riding camels, though I never saw any of them as we engaged the Golden Company. I learnt later that their boats had sunk while they traversed the ocean. Mayhaps Prince Doran wishes to enrich the fifty thousand spears of Dorne with camels?”

It was Pycelle who spoke in response, “Come Lord Selmy, Westerosi cavalry would smash any Essosi ones, be they Dothraki savages or camel riders. Using them in war makes no sense, though I confess I do not have more than three links in the knowledge of warcraft. Their reputation would perchance be solely due to scaring off the odd smaller band of fighters, and more-over, Prince Doran is a cautious man, near indolent, he would not declare war on the Iron Throne, especially with such a dubious advantage, whether it can be even called so, on his side.” And satisfied by his own response, Pycelle bore a large smile on his face, and thankfully did not run his hands through his beard, disturbing the great mass of chains.

Lord Selmy nodded his head at this, though he contemplated whether it was truly possible the Dornish had forgotten the slaughter of Elia Martell and her children at Tywin Lannister’s orders before returning to silence. Before anyone else could speak their peace, the men at the door to the Small Council chamber, _falcon-cloaks_ thought Stannis, opened the door, and all the Lords stood, for flanked by two white shadows, were the King and the Hand. His brother and his brother’s foster father, Robert and Jon Arryn, walked into the room and after all the customary bows and kneeling, they seated themselves at their chairs.

For three heartbeats, there was silence at the table, before Robert took it upon himself to start the discussion of whatever matter the Hand deemed worthy of discussion by the King himself. “WELL? Will someone tell me what we’re supposed to talk about?” roared his brother, in his boisterous fashion, and Stannis noted that Robert was less in his cups than as was wont of late, though his fat face was still flushed red. _Possibly from climbing the stairs,_ Stannis mused.

Baelish spoke, “We were talking about Dorne’s purchase of camels as a precaution for the possible autumn to follow the summer, your grace.” And the thin lord, plucked gingerly at his goatee as if he was afraid a singularly large exertion of force would tear his chin out.

At which Robert roared again, “HAH!”, “Camels? I’d thought they were a myth! What does Dorne want camels for? They tired of shagging goats and snakes?” At which he erupted in laughter yet again, to which Renly, Baelish, and Varys politely smiled. While Jon and Selmy frowned, alongside Stannis himself who clenched his jaw at the poor jape, while Robert himself downed a glass of wine that he had poured for himself.

It was Jon Arryn, however, who spoke, “Prince Doran sent me a raven, Your Grace.” And the council members seemed intrigued as they rose in their seats, for it was not often the reclusive Lord of Sunspear made to interact with the realm at large.

Stannis too straightened himself in his seat, a fruitless endeavour, for his spine was already stiff as an iron beam. Robert looked at his foster father with expectancy in one eye, and a lust for the glass he bore in the other. “WELL, LORD HAND? What is it?”

Jon sighed, and adjusted the chain of golden hands before speaking, “He tells me that the purchase of camels is to facilitate settlements across the deserts if need be. But that is the littlest part of what he has sent, the next part of his letter spoke about, and I quote,

“ _My brother Oberyn wishes to ride these camels into battle, and despite my urgings to him to ride in the disputed lands again for a while, he says he wishes to see how the beasts perform in combat against the barbarians beyond the Wall, as the merchants whom we purchased the animals from have told him they tolerate both heat and cold equally well. I could not dissuade him from the same, and mayhaps some of the wildlings can be tamed for a short while by Oberyn’s forays beyond the Wall._

_Perhaps the chilly snows he shall have to face upon any rangings, would bring him to his senses after a sen-night, though I wager the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, whom I presume to be Jeor Mormont, though the distance between our two places results in any happenings there to reach us far later than normal, shall be happy for the increased man-power he shall have to stymy any raids by the wildlings. So as to not draw the ire of Lord Commander Mormont, Oberyn’s party shall bring its own provisions for their stay at the wall, and this party shall be of a thousand men, for my brother would have no less no matter how much I counselled him for the same, and eight hundred of these shall be camel-riders._

_Of those who are not camel riders, they shall be commanded by Ser Jason Dorne, a fine knight returned from Marahai, beyond Qarth._

_In good faith, and to confirm our own intentions, I request that a member of the Small Council, such as Lord Stannis Baratheon, the King’s brother or the Lord Hand Jon Arryn himself, along with their men, shall be dispatched by the Iron Throne, though it is the prerogative of the King himself if he chooses to send with us Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Renly Baratheon or Lord Varys.”  
  
_

And so, Prince Doran ends his letter with his sign.” Finished Lord Arryn, and for a moment there was nothing but silence. And then, the room erupted with Robert’s shouting, as he waved his hand about, and dislodged a pillow from his chair. “HA! THE RED VIPER WANTS TO SAMPLE THE WOMEN BEYOND THE WALL NO DOUBT! Though.. a thousand men? Aye, camel-riders or not, Jeor Mormont would love Oberyn for it, and us too. And… if I remember my time with Ned in the Eyrie correctly, the Umbers would be happy to see their borders protected by a larger group of men, who are not rapists, thieves and beggars, even if only for a little while. AND NED WOULD LIKE IT TOO! MAYBE I CAN FINALLY DRAW HIM FROM THE NORTH WITH THAT!!”

Jon sighed, and Stannis gritted his teeth, before Jon spoke again, “Aye, perhaps this would be a good idea, Robert. Ned sends me reports from the Night’s Watch, that there has been greater activity beyond the Wall than normal, having a thousand more men could do Jeor good, and give us the knowledge we need to see if there needs be a Royal Intervention against a new King-Beyond-The-Wall. Though whom should we send?”

Robert scratched his large beard for but a moment before roaring yet again, “Not that the wildlings would have any fleet of note, but I doubt there is any naval commander better than my own little brother! He did smash Victarion Greyjoy off Fair Isle and that idiot is regarded as the best-captain those Iron Islanders have, seeing as how the Crow’s Eye only ever wanted to pirate. I would send Stannis there, yes, let him test our Royal Fleet for once!”

Stannis gritted his teeth yet again, despite being mildly pleased that Robert had recognized his worth as a commander, it also grated on him that he was being shoe-horned into the role of a naval one, Master of Ships or no. He spoke, “It shall be my duty, but what for the land contingent, Your Grace?

Robert scratched his beard yet again, before asking, “How many men can the Crownlands field for the endeavour?” Before pouring himself another cup, this time a Dornish Red.

Stannis thought for a moment before speaking, “Perhaps five hundred, since we are not truly going to war, though most of them would need to stay on the fleet and near Eastwatch, if you are allowing me to take any significant number of ships for the purpose, Your Grace.”

Robert barked, “Bugger that, take as many ships as you want, those sailors grow fat while doing nothing. A good rally against wildling rafts might make them lose some weight! But five hundred men….” At which he again stroked his beard before shouting, “RENLY! HOW MANY MEN FROM THE STORMLANDS?”

The Lord of Storm’s End thought for a moment before speaking, “Perhaps a thousand? Yes, a thousand, though half would be footmen.” And Stannis knew that a majority of the rest would no doubt be gallivanting towards a tourney In the Reach.

Robert laughed, “Very well! A thousand it shall be! Though… to command them, your squire in your stead, mayhaps? As ignorant of the running of the realm as I am, two Lords of the Small Council being away might have some fools blabbering? Ah! SELMY! You’re regarded as the greatest knight in the realm, Kingslayer be buggered. I want you to take command of the Stormlanders, let Renly’s rose work with you. In-fact, take the Kingslayer with you too! Maybe a while in the cold would wipe that grin off his face like the Red Viper’s, and Cersei might keep her mouth shut for a while without him around.”

The Eunuch spoke at this, “With the rising statue of the Tyrell boy, you’ll have three of the greatest swords under the Iron Throne to temper any excesses by the Viper; Wise choices, Your Grace.”

Robert momentarily paused, and Stannis knew that Robert hadn’t contemplated this at all, for what else could the pause mean, before continuing “Ah, Yes, yes, best swordsmen. Selmy, the Oakheart boy can have his go commanding in your stead, or maybe Blount? Bah, you choose your temporary replacement, you know your sworn brothers best.”

Selmy nodded, before something like comprehension dawned on his face, as he spoke softly, “Seven Above, its Jason Dorne.”

Robert seemed interested, as he motioned Selmy to go on, and besides himself Stannis too, was piqued. Selmy continued, “Jason Dorne. The knight is hereabouts an age similar to my own but if he as fearsome as he was in his youth, he would remain a phenomenal fighter. He fought with me during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and killed Liomond Lashare, and two dozen others himself. He was a bastard of some Gargalen, and instead of keeping the name Sand, he renamed himself Dorne. Some soldiers even claimed they’d seen him slay an elephant. After the war, he participated in a few melees at many tournaments, after which he disappeared, and I’d assumed he’d fallen on an unfortunate end, such as drowning or a disease. To think he’d gone to so far in the East.”

**A/N = The Jason Dorne bit is a tongue-in-cheek pun, both about Jason Bourne, as well as the memes that sprouted from the random Dornish Prince from S8 of the ASOIAF adaptation GOT.**

Pycelle spoke, somewhat unhelpfully, “Marahai is regarded as a paradise isle, and perhaps the knight simply wished a peaceful life.” Stannis snorted, ‘paradise’, the idea of a paradise was different for everyone no doubt, and is if to prove his point, Robert grumbled, “Bah, who’d want to live the rest of their prime on some island, even if it is some… idyllic place… grr. The song of wines, wenches, and war is a far better paradise! To face a Dothraki Horde on an open field! I crushed Rhaegar at the RUBY FORD!” his brother droned on, flushing himself a deeper red as he thought of his prime, intermingled with the phrase that had associated itself with Robert more than wine, women, or prostitutes. “GODS I WAS STRONG THEN!”

And so the meeting elapsed, with the Lords of the Small Council excusing themselves, apart from Selmy and his White Brothers who were obligated to remain with the King. When Stannis had left the room, and bade leave of his brother, it was the Hand who intercepted him.

“Lord Stannis…” spoke the Hand, and Stannis responded, “My Lord Hand? What is your command?” For the Hand outranked the Master of Ships, and it was his duty to carry out the man’s orders.

The Falcon-lord drew himself closer until his mouth was but a hair’s length away from Stannis’ ear, and spoke, “I would have you keep a closer eye on what occurs in the North, something about this entire affair rankles me mildly, and I would not be taken un-awares at whatever happens.”

Stannis nodded, and so, he moved to follow the path to exit from the Red Keep, flanked by loyal Baratheon men, and to find Ser Seaworth, his Onion Knight, to document the status of the Royal Fleet.

**_Eddard Stark_ **

_========================================_

Eddard had been reading when his second youngest son had knocked upon the door. Curious and excitable and stubborn, little Bran roused him from his study of the reports from villages amongst Sea Dragon Point with the following words, “Father! Father! I was on the outer walls, above the East Gate, and I saw that many men are approaching Winterfelll, under colourful Banners! Millions, maybe even a thousand of them! The Captain of the Gate told me to inform you and Mother, and so I ran here! A lot of them weren’t riding horses father! Instead they were riding some large, tall beasts!” near shouted the boy, and Eddard chuckled quietly, ruffling Bran’s hair, who sought to fix it in a huff that was so childlike.

_So they’ve arrived,_ thought Eddard, for his visitors at the moment were not any of the Northern Lords Ned knew well enough, but those of the South not bound to his Paramountcy and so much to the South to be of Dorne. _It is well that Lord Manderly managed to send me a raven,_ he thought, for the descendant of those who’d fled Dunstonbury to White Harbour, was re-affirming his loyalty by informing him that the leader of the Southern Party, Prince Oberyn, had decided to make his way to Winterfell instead of heading to the Wall immediately.

It was almost expected in its unexpectedness, for Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell had always possessed the dubious repute of being un-predictable, and hot-headed, but he was still a Lord, and a Prince, and Winterfell would bear host to these foreign princelings until they made for the Wall.

Lord Wyman Manderly had told him that half of the Dornish Prince’s men had proceeded to the Wall, with the Baratheon men trailing behind them in their Royal Fleet But the other half, a five hundred were sojourning themselves towards Winterfell, the reason which, Ned wagered, was that Prince Oberyn must perhaps have been taken by a fancy of seeing the seat of the Starks before continuing ahead with his mission beyond the wall.

But that was not the strangest matter of it all, Ned mused, as he walked out from the Keep, towards the Courtyard, where he spotted his lady wife, Catelyn, and their children. His heir, Robb, hot-headed but good-natured who stood next to his ward, Theon Greyjoy, his first daughter, Sansa who seeked to emulate the epitome of courtly behaviour, his second daughter, Arya, who so reminded him of his deceased elder brother and younger sister combined, and his second youngest son, Brandon, inquisitive and curious. His youngest, Rickon, it would seem, remained under the watch of the servants and the nurses, being as he was, far too young to attend a meeting with Lords not of the North. And his ne… bastard son, Jon Snow, stood to the side, accompanied by Jory Cassel and another guard. But nevertheless, the strangest matter was the mounts the Dornish rode, for these were not common destriers, palfreys, coursers, or geldings, nor the famed sand-steeds of their home, nay, not a horse of any kind.

No, they instead rode upon tall, beasts, some with one hump, some with two, and the odd animal with a large hump and a short hump, perhaps a mixing of the two breeds, which were all called Camels. These camel-riders, poured through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, colours, and steel, five hundred strong, a veritable gaggle of bannermen, knights, sworn swords, and freeriders, all taken away from the familiarity of the Horse and Sword, to partake of the Camel and Spear, Pike, or long-arm of myriad kind, and if any were still unfamiliar with the beasts they rode, none of them showed it outwardly.

Ned knew none of the riders but of the lead one, the tall man riding what appeared to be the largest of the beasts, bearing copper-ring blazoned steel armour upon its bodice, with a strange yet seemingly comfortable saddle between its one-and-a-half humps, and the bright spear through sun of House Martell draped across its sides. As the man dismounted, it could only be one person, Oberyn Martell, and as he did so, Ned recalled the other banners of the lords who’d formed up around Prince Oberyn to dismount, _Gargalen, Allyrion, Uller, Qorgoyle, Yronwood, Dalt, Blackmont, by the Old Gods, has he brought representatives of all the Nobility of Dorne with him?_ He thought, and as they approached further, with the grooms of their own party following the grooms and stable-boys of Winterfell to house their mounts, Eddard spoke, “Prince Oberyn of House Martell, the hospitality of Winterfell is offered to you, by me, Lord Eddard of House Stark, Warden of the North. I shall hope it shall please you and your noble companions, until you decide to continue upon your campaign against the Wildlings.”

The saturnine, yet toned face of Prince Oberyn was quick to respond, ever so courteous, “Very well Lord Eddard, on behalf of all my companions as well as myself, I Prince Oberyn of House Nymeros Martell, do gladly accept the bread and salt of Winterfell, and the hospitality you will show us.”

And so, with the customary pleasantries dispensed of, all parties present moved to find their quarters, while Catelyn moved to guide the lords who had accompanied Prince Oberyn to quarters suitable for their stature. While Robb and Sansa, had their instructions to oversee the welcome feast that would occur in the night, Lord Eddard himself moved to go to the North Gate, for a servant had informed him that the Greatjon had arrived with his son, the Smalljon, no doubt to see the Dornish Party and gauge how well they would deal with the Wildlings, for it was his own people who faced the brunt of their raids, along with Lord Medger Cerwyn, who had arrived simply due to the proximity of his own castle to Winterfell.

But before he could do so, he was interrupted by Prince Oberyn approaching him, to which he responded to with a nod, and “Prince Oberyn.” At which the Dornishman himself inclined his head and responded, “Lord Stark. Your Lady wife informs me that there shall be feast in the night, to welcome us. And I shall tell you we would be leaving overmorrow so as to not only prevent us over-staying our welcome, but because quite frankly… I itch for battle, even if it is with iron bearing wildlings. “

Eddard nodded, not quite seeing why the Prince had to inform him of this immediately, before Prince Oberyn continued, his hands articulating his feelings as he spoke, “I would request an audience with yourself after the feast, for I wish to discuss some topics with yourself if you would be available for the same.”

Eddard was confused to say the least, but there was nothing inherently strange about the request, for even if the Red Viper had gained his name via a liberal use of poison, there was no ill-will between the two of them, for Eddard had not ordered Elia of Dorne’s slaughter, _No, that would be Tywin Lannister,_ thought Ned bitterly, before he spoke, “Very well, Prince Oberyn, I shall meet with you in my Solar an hour after the feast if that is fine?”

And after receiving the nod that was the response, Ned moved to trade words with the Umbers, and hope that his spine would endure the bear-hug that the Greatjon would engulf him in, or he would need a few more pillows for his seat at the feast.

And so, the rest of the sunlight whittled away, as the late afternoon gave way to the evening which gave way in turn, to the night. And it was then that the feast commenced; midway through which, the Great Hall was hazy with smoke and his nose filled with the smell of roasted meats, and fresh-baked bread. He himself was on a raised platform, with his wife and the lords, and he looked about the hall to take in the situation.

Sansa for one, was gorging upon lemon cakes in the daintiest fashion possible, no doubt fresher than usual due to the Dornish party that was within Winterfell’s halls, while Catelyn was gently scolding Bran for chewing on too many Dornish peppers at once. Bran was too busy drinking watered down wine to take much note of the scolding however, to quench the spice, no doubt, for his own burning tongue would serve as enough lesson to not over-indulge in peppers again.

Arya was seated next to Prince Oberyn, who from what Ned could gather, was regaling her with the tales of the combat prowess of his eldest children, all of whom were women, which he winced at, for he knew Arya would pester him for the same. While he was pleased to see Robb and Theon were gaily jesting and japing with some of the younger Dornish knights and lords. Ned wasn’t one for the war of words, but his own memories of friendship with Robert confirmed the obvious fact that if they made friends with them, it could be for the best.

His other son, Jon however, chose to seat himself on one of the lower tables, which he sighed, for he knew his wife must have had some hand in. But as much as he could make out, the lad was enjoying himself with mead and food, which was a good sign if nothing else.

The Dornish Prince for one, when he had finished entertaining Arya did not seem to be partaking much of any wine or mead, even going so far as to take only one cup of the Dornish Red they’d brought with them, which Ned thought must be a precaution so as to keep his wits about him, though Ned had assumed the man to be able to consume a prodigious amount of liquor if need be.

And so another hour or two passed, and everyone at the Hall found themselves returning to their quarter, while Ned moved to his solar, where he changed from his formal clothes, to a more accommodating dress for the night, for he did not believe the meeting with Oberyn could take very long if anything.

As his wife raised her eyebrow at him leaving their shared bedroom to go to the Solar, he spoke, “Prince Oberyn would have words with me, Cat, but I will be sharing our bed later.” And so his wife kissed him farewell for the moment.

In a dozen heartbeats, he found himself in his solar, and so the servant fed the fireplace with some iron-wood logs, and the fire burned the queer blue that iron-wood was prized for. He reclined in his seat behind his table for the moment, taking in the warmth from the fire.

He remembered what his father had told him and his brother Brandon so long ago, when Benjen had been still too young to understand the lesson, “Winterfell has heated pipes for much of its rooms yes, but the Starks of Yore omitted the same from the Lord’s solar for one reason, my sons, that is that a Lord should be mindful of the cold and chill of his home before he makes any decisions, lest the warmth befuddle his thoughts, and this is what the Stark in Winterfell must remember.”

And despite the warmth of the fireplace, the atmosphere in the room was still chilly. It did not take long before the lantern near the timepiece indicated that it was the hour of ghosts, a queer time, but still not the blackest part of night, for that was the hour of the wolf, and it was at this time that the guard outside his door knocked to inform that he had a visitor, “Prince Oberyn, milord, to see you.” Said the guard, Lorgy, he remembered, and so he nodded to let him in.

Unlike Ned, Prince Oberyn chose to remain in the same rich orange doublet he had worn for the feast, but it remained spotless, unmarred by any morsels of food or wine stains, indicating that the man who bore it was either exacting about cleanliness, or incredible in grace, and Ned was inclined to think the latter.

“Prince Oberyn,” Ned spoke, inclining his head in acknowledgement again, and the Dornish Prince nodded in response, “Lord Stark.”

“Please, take a seat, my Prince.” He said, and the Dornish Prince nodded in agreement, as they both seated themselves at the opposite ends of his table.

And so for half-a-heartbeat, there was a silence, before Oberyn spoke, a curious undertone that Ned couldn’t place carrying in his accented voice that wafted through the chilly air. If the Dornishman was affected by the chill in the room, he did not show it, as he spoke, “Your lands are queerly beautiful… my Lord. I shall admit, I am still yet fond of the warm sands of Dorne, and the sights of the Free Cities, but only a fool would disparage… the Northern Kingdoms, for snow, pines and… wolves, have their own beauty no? I shall admit, I have not breathed in air this clean and crisp for a good while.”

Ned nodded pleasantly, for while Oberyn’s reputation of arrogance was still present, the fact he could appreciate the sights of the North indicated a smarter man than most, if Ned said so himself.

The Prince continued, with his lips upturned in a small smile, though there was something tugging at the corner of his face that Ned could not place. “Your children are interesting to say the least, My Lord. While I have not had the honour of meeting your youngest, mere babe that he is, your four other children are interesting in their own right.”

Ned spoke quietly, “Five, Prince Oberyn.”

Oberyn, gave a short chuckle at this, “Yes, your bastard son, Jon Snow, was it? I will admit I did not engage much with him, though not for any hate of bastards. All my eight children are bastards too, you see? And I love them fiercely… so to see the most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms house his bastard in his keep where most lords would discard them… warms a Dornishman’s heart so… fiercely.” The Prince drawled loudly.

Ned misliked the tone, but there was nothing Oberyn was saying that he had not heard earlier, and so he kept his silence while the Dornishman continued, “Yes… your children interest me. Your eldest son, Robb? I believe he has the trappings of a great commander of men in battle but not so much for a lord and the words and dealings it brings, no?”

Ned had to agree with this, for Robb was far more interested in the song of steel on steel, even if it were tourney swords, then learning numbers with Maester Luwin. “Yes… your daughter Sansa, so fascinated with knights and tales, mayhaps a goodly marriage to a Reachly house would do well for her… being as it is the heart of chivalry and true… Knights no?”

Ned did not like this statement either, for while it were true that the Reach was considered the heart of chivalry, Starks did not do well in the South, and so perhaps Sansa might needs learn the truth of men and knights unless Cat would have her marry into the South.

But the Dornish Prince pressed on… “Your youngest daughter… if she somehow snuck onto my entourage and claimed she were my daughter, I would accept the same. There are none so as fierce apart from my own children… and it would seem yours too, an interesting child. I would have seen her armed too… but you know best my lord, though the tales of wolf’s blood amongst Starks is one we know even in Dorne. Your other son…. Bran was it? An inquisitive child, mayhaps he would make a good seneschal for your oldest or the Lord of a Cadet branch no? It is an interesting brood you have, Lord Stark.” The man finished, inclining his head ever so slightly downwards.

Ned was confused to say the least; surely the Prince had not sought a meeting with him to merely discuss his own children? But Oberyn raised his hands gently, but with a purpose, as he started anew his speech, “Hmmm…. The Wall, some say it has stood for eight thousand years… others say six… others say ten. What does it matter? But I wonder why does one need a seven hundred foot tall wall, spanning three hundred miles to guard the realm from bandit tribes equipped with bronze and iron?”

Ned quipped, “So why are you making the trip beyond the Wall, Prince, if you find that the opposition would be so weak?”

Oberyn chuckled at this, “Let no man say that Oberyn Nymeros Martell is predictable. Doran would have had me scour the Stepstones… or tour the Disputed Lands… both of which I did enough of in my youth. No… I craved a taste of the cold of the North. Who knows? Maybe I can test my spear and my camels upon Giants, Mammoths and Others… no? Perhaps snarks and grumpkins too.”

Ned did not know what to respond to this, but he was saved from doing so by the Martell continuing… “I have also heard that there is a dragon at the Wall, a queer thing. How many Targaryens are left on the World? Five perhaps?”

There was sense of dread and confusion mingling itself inside Ned as he spoke…. “Rhaegar’s siblings… Viserys and Daenerys… and Aemon Targaryen, the old Maester makes three, Prince.”

There was a dangerous glint in Oberyn’s eyes as he stared into Ned’s own, and for a moment Ned thought… _No, it cannot be so,_ and his heart skipped several beats when Oberyn spoke… in a voice so quiet as to be mistaken for the rustling of the leaves, but still crisp and sharp as a Valyrian Blade“No? What of the Dragon in Winterfell?

Ned stared back for a moment, before speaking, “Dragon? There is no Dragon in Winterfell. Unless you mean to tell me that Vermax truly laid an egg in the Crypts, and it has hatched of late?”

Oberyn chuckled, but this was not the chuckle of a man whose jape had been exposed, but, no the same dangerous undercurrent was intoxicatingly present in his voice as he continued, “I do not mean the winged beasts… And I will not play this game of words any further; I speak of the Targaryen babe you passed off as your own which happened only because of the fortune that the gods granted you in Stark features trumping the blood of Valyria. I speak of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, sired at the Tower of Joy which you tore down for cairns for the bodies of your companions and the fallen brothers of the Kingsguard. I speak of the child my sister Elia acquiesced to the siring of on the condition that Rhaegar would recognize him as the Prince of Summer-hall and no more, on pain of which of failing, she would smother the babe herself. I speak of the one you call Jon Snow.”

And it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck Ned, and his heart palpitated immensely for the moment, as he thought… _Could Howland have betrayed me?_ , as he sank further into his chair, near disappearing into its iron-wood frame.

The Prince for one seemed satisfied, as he stood up and spoke, “Doran knows… Doran always knows. I dare say he knows as much of Westeros at large as the Spider, if not more. And what happens in Dorne is known to those in Dorne… we found the Septon who wed Lyanna and Rhaegar, and we pieced together the evidence afterwards. The boy looks like yours, this is true, but his jaw and cheek-bones? I saw enough of my sister’s thrice-damned husband to remember what they looked like, and the boy is a match like no other. So tell me, Lord Eddard Stark, most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms… what is the boy’s real name? It cannot be Visenya, though prophecy deluded fool Rhaegar was.”

Ned’s face hardened, the steel and cold of the North pushing into him as he moved from his own seat to the Prince, and grasped him by the collar of his clothes. “I will not have you slay the boy, Oberyn… Prince or no, if you feel Elia was wronged by Rhaegar for this marriage, which I too share the sentiment.”

His hand was wrenched away with ease by the Prince, despite the latter being half-a-decade away, he had seen more battle than Ned in the years since the Greyjoy Uprising, and the muscles in his hand were taut and strong. The Prince spoke quietly, “Eddard… I would not kill the boy… do not be a fool. I told you that Elia acquiesced to his elevation to the Prince of Summerhall even it were only for Rhaegar not killing her by siring a third babe on her. Rhaenys had damaged her, and Aegon had near left her barren, a third child would have killed her, and so she gave Rhaegar the permission, that day at Harrenhal. Though now I suppose… he is the rightful…. King of Westeros, for a son comes before a brother, no?”

Eddard wrenched his own hand away, as he spoke, aghast with confusion and pain “You cannot mean to crown him? I cannot go against Robert… for all he did… he is still near a brother to me, estranged as we are.”

There was near a playful smile on Oberyn’s visage as he spoke, but a false one, for his eyes were near hard as dragonbone, “Your friend who slaughtered my sister, my niece, and her nephew? Who enacted the rape of Elia… and the dashing of Aegon’s head against the wall… coupled with the fourty-four stabbings that Rhaenys was inflicted with?”

And Ned was ashamed, for he had heard that Robert had smiled at the shrouded corpses, and called them dragonspawn, “He did not order it, it was Lord Tywin who did so, and Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane who did the deed.”

Oberyn cocked his head sideways, as he continued, “He smiled at their corpses no?”, and Eddard knew then… that he had dishonoured himself by trying to defend his erstwhile friend. He spoke, “I cannot… will not… rise for Jon… even though I raised him… even though he is the rightful king. But… If you mean to crown him, the North will not rise for Robert either.”

Oberyn’s lips finally curled downwards into a frown as he spoke, “And of his heirs? If Prince Joffrey ascends?”

Ned spoke, “I cannot make any promises… they are Robert’s children…”

There was a curious expression Oberyn’s face as he contemplated this, almost as if he were about to reveal something more, but he paused himself and continued with a different topic, “Very well, but he will not be subject to any more cruelty, wilful or not, by your lady wife and her servants. I shall take the boy with me as a squire, until… Doran chooses to rise.”  
  


‘Until’ Ned noted… and not ‘if’, it would seem the Prince of Dorne who the realm considered indolent, had made his choice, it would remain to be seen when.

Ned paused, he would not let a foreign prince take Lyanna’s son even if they would rise for him as their king and so he spoke, “And if I refuse to let him go with you?”

The Prince laughed, a low, throaty grin that was more a growl than any sign of amusement as he said, “Perhaps… your friend… would spare the boy if… he ever were made aware… if he had any vestige of love left for Lyanna. Surely if one can go to war for a woman, they should honour that love by leaving the woman’s child well alone no.”

Ned was lost, he did not know where this was going, but he said, “Surely you do not mean to expose the truth at large?”

Oberyn smirked as he responded, “Mmm…. Perhaps I would not… but Doran? Who is to say what Doran would do? Passive as he is… he is still a Martell… and a well-placed word from his agents to Tywin Lannister’s ears… or a mis-placed letter at Casterly Rock… would see him strive to seek the blood of your nephew, no? Loathe as Doran would be to do so…interacting with he whom we consider anathema…he would exact vengeance anyhow.”

Ned was aghast as he responded, “Vile as the man is, surely he would not risk drawing the ire of the North upon himself by killing Jon?”

The Prince cocked his head sideways as he spoke, “The ire of the North for the death of whom the rest of the World considers a bastard?”

Ned would not back down, “And if he is a bastard why would the mighty Tywin Lannister worry?”

The Prince laughed, “It is precisely because he is base-born that the Mighty Tywin Lannister can have the boy killed without fear of consequence. Dubious as the claim might seem to him if no-one else has knowledge of it… he has the access to all the funds of the Westerlands lest you forget, and it is a pittance for him to seek the service of the House of Black and White… of the Faceless Men, or if he wishes more exotic fare, he can seek the Order of Fangs and Tusks of Volantene, or any number of assassin orders. A push in the night, an exotic poison, all tasks impossibly easy for those orders to accomplish.”

Ned was about to speak but the Dornishman continued, “It is said that the man constantly speaks a phrase, that ‘the house that puts the welfare of the family first, always triumphs over the house that seeks to gratify the wishes of its sons and daughters’, and it is his own grand-children that are in line to sit the throne. So what is the death of a base-born bastard that may or may not be a true Targaryen via the Tears of Lys, compared to his wish of seeing a dynasty that shall reign for ten thousand years?”

Ned… considered this… and for the first time he wished he had something to drink, as he spoke, “Robert would give me justice and an investigation into the boy’s death if I spoke to him of our conversation.”

The Prince laughed again, “He will not risk offending his own goodfather, and the principal entity to whom the Iron Throne owes money, and suffice to say, you raving that a Martell and a Lannister colluded in killing your son would make the realm at large deem you crazy, for in what scenario… would our two houses tolerate each other let alone work together?”

And for once, Ned realised he was truly caught between hammer and tongs, and perhaps it would be better for Jon to be a Political Pawn then die by having his intestines burned by the Tears in the near future. He spoke, “Very well… he shall be your Squire.”

The hawk-eyed prince looked at him, “And his name?” Ned sighed… as he said the name, memories of guilt floating across his mind, “Jaehaerys, after the Conciliator I suppose, though Lyanna could very well have named him after his own great-grandfather who fought the War of the Ninepenny Kings.”

Oberyn it would seem was surprised… “Jaehaerys… I was expecting a Daeron… or perhaps a Maekar or Baelor. But very well.. Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Third of His Name… shall be my Squire. But you shall tell him the truth yourself, lest he wonder why a foreign prince took him for a squire and started calling him Jaehaerys.”

Ned nodded at this, and after moving outside the door to signal the guard to bring Jon to him, he shut the door, and moved to the locked ante-chamber at the side of the room, hidden as it was behind a cupboard, and brought out the keys that he always kept with himself as he opened them. As he walked in, he noted the Dornish prince peer curiously behind his back, but Ned ignored it as he brought out the things Lyanna had left for her son.

There was a short laugh from the Prince who observed the scene as he spoke, “I assume that is not one of Vermax’s eggs, Lord Eddard?” His immaculate clothes, bending in so many creases as the men stretched to find a better look at the turquoise-cream colouring of the egg.

Eddard shook his head as he spoke, “No… Lyanna left it for him as well as a letter… and a Valyrian Steel dagger… merely symbolic if anything as she told me…Aegon and Rhaenys would have had their own eggs I suppose, though purely ceremonial. It is one from the clutch that Aegon the Unlikely took to Summerhall before it burnt to the ground.”

Oberyn it would seem scratched his stubble at this, “I was expecting Dark Sister, and an egg of Balerion the Black Dread himself, well I suppose, Jaehaerys must make do with these to be his marks of proof.”

At this Ned momentarily stopped, thinking hard to remember the details of the events so long gone, before speaking “Black Sister went with Bloodraven to the Wall, and lost in a ranging beyond, I suppose. But….It has been a long while… yes… but I seem to recall that Aegon’s egg was never found either. I do not mean the Unlikely, but he who would have been the Sixth.”

There was a twinkle in Oberyn’s eye, but this was not the same glint exuding danger he had exhibited previously, as he spoke in response, “Perhaps it was stolen in the sack, after all… Dragon Eggs are worth a fair bit of coin.”

Ned, did not let the matter go as he spoke, “You said… five… not four… five.”

Oberyn’s lips curled upwards again, into a wide grin as he continued, “Perhaps I mis-spoke, or per-haps you are mistaken, Lord Stark.”

Ned thought, _Maybe I am,_ but something told him there was to more to the story, even now. But his thoughts were interrupted by a thirteen-year old boy walking into the solar after knocking a few times. Jon bowed profusely, both at Oberyn… as well as Ned himself.

Oberyn drawled slowly, “Come, closer boy. Take a seat; we would have words with you.” And so Jon obeyed the prince, huddling his grey clothes closer about himself as he sat at the chair, and looking at the dragon egg with confusion at first before his eyes widened in recognition.

As Ned moved to feed the fire with one of the Ironwood logs, he heard Oberyn speak, “Come… Jon Snow… you shall be my squire from tomorrow. Your Lord Father tells me you are a… good sword, and smart and hard-working. I am in need of a good squire, and you fit the bill. You shall come with me and we shall see the Wall, and slay wildlings. And then we shall go beyond, no?”

The boy nodded in confusion, no doubt thunderstruck by the revelation he would be squiring for a Prince, even it were a Dornish one. And Ned felt almost sorry for Jon… no… Jaehaerys as he would be learning the Truth then, as he spoke, “Jon… I must tell you the truth about your birth, for I have concealed it for far too long.”

And so, the night drew on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be many more time-skips after this, and the next chapter will detail the first Ranging by Oberyn.


	4. The Sun Waxes 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon Meets Doran, and Jon is at the Wall.

**_Doran_ **

_========================================_

It had been a few months since I’d made land-fall in Westeros, and well, it would seem that fortune had been with me. Well, for the past few months at the very least. I’d put on near ten kilograms, or one-and-a-half stones, as was the Westerosi Unit, and for the most part, I no longer needed the cane to walk around, unless there was a particularly large build-up of Uric Acid in my joints, not that the Maesters knew that was what caused gout. For the learned men of Westeros, they merely termed it an inflammation of the joints, brought about by familial lineage, and did not make the connection to a lifestyle choice.

It was a queer thing to be Doran, especially after the events of the past few months. There were many things I knew, that Doran Nymeros Martell in his original state did not know, yes, that was true. But with the actions I’d wrought in hopes of safeguarding Dorne, and bringing about the downfall of House Lannister, much of the future was no doubt uncertain, a by-product of what scientists back home… well back on Earth, since I’d taken to embracing Westeros as home, esoterically called the Butterfly Effect.

Arianne, for one, had returned to Sunspear, after a sen-night’s stay of courting by Edmure Tully, and so I’d questioned her then whether she wished to also meet Garlan Tyrell. The Princess had instead responded, “No… father, t’would be for the better if I wed Edmure, no matter if the Tyrell boy is called the Gallant. I have taken a fancy to the Tully heir, and would wed him if you agreed to the same.”

At this, I’d cocked an eyebrow, hours of training helping me in achieving the same I’d been momentarily jealous of Oberyn for, “And of the ruling of Dorne?”, she had bit her lip and told me of the conversation she had had with Hoster Tully, and at that I gave a short chuckle, responding with, “Lord Hoster sent me a letter, I would have you know.”

At this, Arianne merely raised her own eyebrow before speaking, “Oh?”, but her clutching the sides of her dress tightly had given me enough insight to know that this would need delicacy as I spoke, “Lord Hoster told me of the conversation between yourself and him about the succession of Dorne, and even though the Paramount of the Trident understands that… his grand-children ruling the Eyrie, the North, And Dorne in tandem to the Riverlands is a…. prospective windfall. He also told me, that he can scarcely expect you and Edmure to manage both the kingdoms, seeing as to how far they are, and he would not take any grave offence if I chose to make Quentyn the ruler of Dorne.”

And Arianne had given him a look, not of vehemence or anger no, but mild confusion and what I had thought to be hope, before she had responded curtly, “In truth, you have groomed Quentyn to rule for a while longer than me, and even I think it is for the best that I wed Edmure and be his Lady Paramount. As highly as I think of my own capabilities, I would think there is no shame in admitting that it is beyond me to help rule over the Riverlands as well as manage the affairs of Dorne from all the way in Riverrun. So make Quentyn your heir again, father, for I would not mind this time, you aren’t concealing anything from me after all.” She finished, with a haughty air, though tempered by the fact she was speaking to her own Lord Father.

And I’d acquiesced to the marriage, for the parts of Doran within me had wished to see his daughter happy again, for to secure Vengeance, I had in motion the other plans. And so I’d written a letter to Hoster Tully yet again, that Quentyn would ascend, and that if he would accept, the marriage to his heir, and my daughter would take place at the Year’s turn, four months from now, at Sunspear. Well, a bit more than three and a half, for I’d landed in Westeros at the Fourth month of the year, and generation-long summers and winters aside, the calendar followed the same twelve months, and oddly, the names were bastardized versions of our own calendar.

And as the week of Arianne’s arrival had continued to pass by, Oberyn and Quentyn had returned, bringing with them news of a nephew, and a legion of camels, camel-herders, camel-riders, grooms, and warriors who had ridden camels, respectively, having… linked up with one another, per se, before making shore in Planky Town.

Lords Yronwood and Qorgoyle, had been let into the plan, and I had thanked myself, that enough vestiges of Doran had appeared to be able to convince them of what I was to do. For all the fierceness and hot-bloodedness that dominated the people of Dorne, they had taken to the idea of riding camels like a fish to water, and had learnt to ride the beasts incredibly quickly, allowing for Oberyn to make his journey North for his dual purposes of experience and to seize another Targaryen even quicker.

The Qohorik rulers for one, had sought to curry favour with me, by providing, in addition to the camels, two thousand masterfully forged sets of Camel Armour, which while were not Valyrian Steel, were built with the proportions of camels in mind, and were of Qohorik design, which Doran’s memories told me were regarded as some of the best in the world. Most of Oberyn’s company was equipped with the same, with the remaining suits being examined by the smiths of Dorne so as to equip more of the camels.

In addition to this, the Qohoriks had dispatched near two hundred dragon-bone bows, fit for a rider contingent to fire to puncture even plate mail , in a manner similar to Berber camel archers of mine own world, though a Planetosi analogue would be the Dothraki horse-archers. I had quickly grasped what they wanted from me, and so much to the happiness of the Qohorik representative that had accompanied the Martell fleet back home, I had granted Qohor a five-year contract for an access to all the produce of one of the… oil wells that Dorne had. And to sweeten the deal, I’d offered the produce of another well for the duration of two years, at which they’d jumped at, swearing the praise of their Black Goat and that they would send Qohorik blacksmiths to teach my own, as well as more sets of camel armour.

I’d inspected a well myself, one of four new ones discovered of late, and realised while it was no doubt, petroleum, the use that the powers of the East wanted it for, were not so close as to develop planes, or machinery, but more as to fuel the magics and rituals that remained in the East, as well as fuel the ship designs they continued to craft in hopes of mapping Ulthos and Sothoryos. The Qohorik representative had even told me that the people of the Shadow Lands would again purchase much of this from Qohor, and that good coin could be made from that as well.

All in all, an interesting prospect, that re-affirmed the fact that GRRM had hammered into the world, that stagnation was the norm, and there could not be any major development such as the development of fire-arms or mechanized industries, without drawing the ire of….. Esoteric powers. In addition to this, I had learnt that the Qartheen would be sending a representative to discuss with us, a deal for one of the other three fresh wells, though since the scale of minerals in Martin’s world was absurd… perhaps nothing could ever truly run out.

Well, the matters of the economics of Dorne aside, before Oberyn had left for his journey, he spoke in the same long, slow drawl that was his signature, but as a whisper to my ear, that “Egg is real, they shall make land-fall in Sunspear a week from now.” And I had nodded at this in confusion, for I’d expected the boy to be a Blackfyre descendant, and not my own nephew.

He was due to arrive today, and so I had decided to engage in a conversation with the … semi-sentient side of Doran that existed in the recesses of my mind. Though from what I could gather of our situation, we had been fused together, in our own head, there were two consciousnesses. Not quite in the vein of Charles Dance and Tywin duking it out in their minds as was the scenario in another fic, but more akin to that voice you would conjure in your head if you were day-dreaming, but would think that which you did not think, but yet thought. It was a queer thing to explain, but I had learnt quickly that I could have conversations with Doran if pressed for time.

_“Doran… your nephew would arrive today, what would you recommend I do?”_ I thought, some of the Westerosi style of speaking slipping into my own thoughts even.

“ _Ah… Rahul… so… Aegon is real. The first of your predictions to come true…. But not the last I wager.”_ came the response, slow and calculated, but with a kindly undertone beneath it. If Doran were to be an Earthling, he would have been considered the kindly neighbourhood uncle. But his plans in the books had been menacing enough, even if they’d failed.

“ _I can hear… well… feel your thoughts… remember?”_ spoke the mildly amused voice, before it continued, _“I may have been a fictional character… to you before you… died. But I think you have adapted to Westeros no? Enough to understand the thirst for revenge… and justice.”_

I laughed bitterly in my mind, and spoke, “ _Anger is an acid that damages the vessel it is stored in, more than anyone it is poured on, is what I was taught.”_

At which came the response, “ _But your business… with your erstwhile friends seem to tell me you understand the coin of vengeance well enough.”_ And I could do little but mentally agree, at which he continued, “ _That besides, there is much of your past you have not told me, and I do not wish to know either. You are in possession of my body, and with possession of my future. Already you strengthen Dorne, though as covertly as possible, and my own body walks yet again without a cane. You have found that my nephew, yet lives, and I shall urge you to tell him about your plans, for he shall be the King in the future. Waging war would be a difficult task, and a King must know what allies and foes he must have.”_

I agreed at this, before he continued… “ _While Viserys and Arianne’s marriage pact’s dissolution was…. Perhaps the right choice, you must needs understand that even with Aegon being real to us, there will always be those who shall call him pretender. You must wed him to his aunt to secure any naysayers to his parentage, despite your abhorrence of incest.”_

And so I asked, _“Very well… and of Viserys, and the dragons?” at which Doran responded, “Viserys…. Perhaps make him the Master of Law in Aegon’s council, a position ultimately useless, no matter its prestige and with a keep to himself to live his days out eventually with a wife and children. A dirth of Targaryens caused their downfall, unlike the days when the fourth son of a fourth son such as Aegon the Unlikely could ascend. Viserys’ lines mayhaps might be useful again if anything untoward were to happen to the lines of both Summerhall as well as King’s Landing.”_

_“Once… we conquer it, I suppose.” At which Doran nodded, before I continued, “Very well. I believe with the right prodding, and the offer to rule as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, we can seduce Stannis to our side. Turn him into another Orys Baratheon if you will, though it shall be tough to pry him from his duty to his brother, the exposure of Joffrey and his siblings as incestuous ilk, as well as the indisposition of Renly may as well convince him to not press his claim. The Tyrells are conniving and clever folk… but perhaps the offer of a marriage between Aegon’s children and one of Mace’s grand-children might serve.”_

_Doran cocked his eyebrow… and continued, “What if the Fat Flower wishes a more immediate compensation.” At which I was lost… before Doran continued, “Perhaps wed his daughter to this… Jon Snow... with the oath that their children shall wed Aegon’s heir, which should satisfy the Tyrells, as well as Robb Stark once he ascends.”_

_But Doran continued, “Why not simply deal with Stannis in the same manner as Renly?”_

_I thought slowly, “There are those we cannot kill, no matter how big of an obstacle they are, or what they have done, and Stannis is one of them.”_

_Doran raised an eyebrow, and spoke, steel in his voice, “And who are the rest?”_

_I sighed and said, “Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, Davos Seaworth, Jaime Lannister, and Tyrion Lannister. No matter if they lose an arm, but they cannot die, not at any cost._

_Doran spoke, clearly confused, “What do two members of a near-fallen house, the sons of Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Dragonstone and the smuggler who saved him have in common? This makes no sense.”  
  
_

_I spoke quietly, “Lords may call politics the great game, or the Game of Thrones, but any of these individuals might be the lynchpin in a greater game, and I fear the fate of Westeros may lie with them. So no, despite your hatred for any Lannister, we cannot kill those two yet, and nor any of the others.”_

_I continued, dropping the topic with “Anyhow, what of the dragons?” at which Doran momentarily kept his silence before continuing, “You would tell me that Daenerys had three dragons in the future that would never have been. With the introduction of Aegon’s egg, and perhaps Jon’s own, if Rhaegar gave Lyanna an egg, we would have five eggs, though your theory that lives must be offered in fire, with Targaryen blood too, to hatch them, may mean we should consider it when our position is stronger. As far as you have told me, only Aegon, Jon and Daenerys would prove to be the riders, for Viserys is far too unstable, leaving two dragons without riders. A prospect that does not entice me, for two un-tamed dragons feasting upon the small-folk does not sit right with me, nor would it with you, I suppose.”_

_At which I quipped, “Perhaps Stannis would prove to be a rider as well, he holds Targaryen blood as well, or perhaps Renly, if we choose to not leave him a cripple.”_ And so I rapped the table once, and to my satisfaction, my knuckles did not hurt.

With this final parting statement, I exited the trance, for Areo Hotah, had spoken to me, that I had visitors, a boy and his father. These could only be Aegon and Jon Connington, and so I nodded to him, and we left my room, passing graceful buttresses, delicate arches, fluted columns, tall terraces, and bowers, as the towers of Sunspear jutted into the sky, very much themselves resembling thrusting spears.

I walked past the small garden of Sunspear, which my… memories told me was nothing compared to the gardens of the eponymously named Water Gardens, and in their midst, I found a boy with shoulder length hair, whose dye job of a garish blue was slowly eroding to show the pale platinum-blonde beaneath, _silver-gold,_ he scolded himself, as the Westerosi called it. His eyes were violet in the light, but I knew it was blue, a tad bit more normal to Earth than any shade of purple.

“Prince Doran”, came the greeting from the boy, a cherry ring to it, no doubt, but there was aura of royalty that flittered from the edge of his mouth, and his very bearing bore a regal-ness to it. _Tyrion was right,_ I mused, _Perhaps he is the Perfect Prince after all,_ and so I bowed to him before kneeling, “Your Grace, Aegon Targaryen, I bid you welcome to Sunspear and Dorne.” The pleasantries coming to me easier now, than when I had landed, I gently adjusted the ring on my left hand so as to make it not chafe.

The boy seemed mortified slightly, as he spoke, “You are my Uncle, Prince Doran, please do not bow to me.” He spoke, no doubt out of some concern for my reputation of gout, at which I chuckled softly and spoke, “I thank you for your concern, Your Grace, but I have near triumphed over my gout, and it is customary to kneel before a king.” At this the boy nodded, his hands playing with the buttons of the Dornish garb he had chosen to wear for the day.

The boy then raised his hand and waved it away as he spoke, “I have not crowned myself, yet, uncle, I remain a Prince for now.”, at which a small smile tugged at the edge of my lips as I spoke, “Then we are near equals for now.” At which the boy laughed, seemingly satisfied that I would do as he bid. It was the Griffin Lord who interrupted, as he spoke, “All this is very well, Prince Doran, but your brother told us that there is much about the events in Westeros that you would tell us, and there are plans you must reveal to us.” And so we began walking along the paved path in the garden, slowly.

I raised my eyebrow, for I well-remembered how Connington believed Elia did not deserve Rhaegar. His homosexual tendencies were clearly exhibited in that line of thought, but no-matter, I spoke, “Very well, It would seem I shall have to get to the meat of the issue. Prince Aegon, at your disposal, you shall have the thirty thousand spears of Dorne, though our enemies believe it to be fifty. To remedy this further, I have commissioned a powerful Camelry that Oberyn shall be testing beyond the wall.” And Connington grunted with what I mused was probably acceptance if not approval.

The boy spoke, “I have sailed across the Rhoyne for most of my life, and I very well know that Camelry is powerful of its own right, a good advantage to have against Westerosi cavalry if well-equipped and trained. Though that your forces are twenty thousand less than believed might be a problem, my… foster-father tells me that he shall bring the Golden Company to our side.” And once again Tyrion’s description of him as a perfect prince rang true.

I inclined my head, good-naturedly, as I spoke, “That brings our troops to near fifty thousand, Your Grace. And I shall tell you, that Robert Baratheon does not possess any true heirs: Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella are all born of incest between Jaime Lannister and the Queen, and with the truth, Renly and Stannis would no doubt rise in rebellion. Renly is power0hungry, but perhaps that is a by-product of his association with the Tyrells, while the scenario would make Stannis the rightful Baratheon heir.” And I plucked a blood-orange from one of the trees and tossed it to Aegon, who caught it deftly and peeled it with his hand quickly, and bit into it tenderly.

The Prince nodded as he spoke, small droplets of juice tenderly rolling down his mouth, which he wiped away, “Your own agents are spread far and wide, then, Uncle, if you know of all this. How would you turn the Reach that would back Renly, and the Crownlands that would back Stannis to our side?”

I spread my hands wide, as we continued to walk about the garden, both Areo and Jon Connington following us like shadows as I spoke, “Renly perhaps, we could indispose… in a hunting incident, but I am of the belief that Stannis can be made malleable to our own side, if we play upon his belief in his duty, and force him to confront that he abandoned his duty to his throne for his duty to his brother. We could turn him into your Orys Baratheon, your grace, for despite the Crownlander lords being more inclined to support you, they respect Stannis too, and if we bring him to your side by offering the Paramountcy of the Stormlands to him, as he believes it was wrongly taken from him, the Crownlands and your rightful seat shall be yours again with no bloodshed. I would even suggest making him your Lord Hand.

The boy cocked his head, though no doubt understanding that the plan had its merits, as he spoke, “And of you, uncle? Would you not be my Hand?” And I thought for a moment as how to respond as the boy continued to bite into his orange.

I made up my mind and laughed, “Nay… I would be happy for Vengeance alone, and you must appease Stannis suitably.” At which the boy nodded his head before continuing, “A man has two hands, does he not? Perhaps a King must too. We shall talk more of this later.” And for a moment, I was taken aback, for the creation of Two-Hands might prove to create instability, and at this the boy spat out a seed to the side.

I continued anyhow, “Now… Prince, I must tell you that Viserys and Daenerys are not your only family.” And there was a large expression of confusion upon the boy’s face as he spoke, “Do you mean Aemon Targaryen? Haldon told me that he is my… great-great-grand-uncle, brother to my namesake, Aegon the Vth, or Aegon the Unlikely, who took upon himself the chains of maestership, and then went to the Wall.” And once again, the boy bit into the blood-orange, before he tossed the rind to the side.

I shook my head as I responded, for sometimes pulling off the bandage quick was the only solution, as I spoke, “No, your Grace, I do not speak of Aemon Targaryen, but of your half-brother.” At which the boy stopped moving as the coin dropped, “Half… Brother?” as he slowly removed his hand from the flower bush he had been appraising.

At my revelation, Jon Connington growled… “So…Lyanna whelped a babe. Where was he hidden? “, at which I raised my hands as I spoke, “Eddard Stark passed him off as his bastard child, and he is two years your junior. His false name is Jon Snow, though my agents tell me his real name is likely to be Jaehaerys Targaryen, for a septon wed Lyanna and Rhaegar under the agreement of Elia that she would smother Jaehaerys if your birthright was threatened. He is no Blackfyre, and Oberyn shall stop at Winterfell to take him on as his squire, after that which they shall continue their ranging beyond the Wall, and then return to Sunspear, where you could meet him if you choose to stay.”  
  


The boy mouthed softly, “Jaehaerys… to think I have a brother. Yes, I think I would like to meet him, for there are far too few Targaryens in this world, and brothers should stick together. No? When we win the throne, I shall have Summerhall rebuilt, and he shall rule there.” And at this he plucked a few cherries from one of the bushes that I had had planted, and tossed one back to me, which I caught out of the air much as he had the orange.

_When,_ I noted, and if anything, the boy-prince did not lack for courage or confidence. I continued, “It is of my belief we can… sway Mace Tyrell to your side if we wed his daughter to Jaehaerys, and then any child of theirs shall wed your own by your Aunt Daenerys. A generation or two removed perhaps, but Tyrell blood would sit the Throne, and perhaps he shall be satisfied by that, though it remains that he needs to be convinced of your legitimacy. Eddard Stark may not rise for you, but he would not rise against his nephew either, though his son Robb might be malleable enough to convince to go to war on your side, though he would not risk disobeying his father unless Lord Eddard died. ”

Aegon laughed, “This is still a matter of atleast two years or more, uncle, as I am sure you already know. And as for my legitimacy…” The boy trailed off, before pulling the sword from his sheath, at which I was momentarily shocked as I observed the beautiful ripples and swirls across its length, and the ruby at its hilt. There was even a three-headed dragon carved gently across the fuller of the bastard-sword. And I realised it was definitely Blackfyre, for as the book of Benifer said, the blade could be mistaken for no other, even sheathed. But I had been looking at the Prince, and not the sword at his hilt, and so I had not thought of it sooner.

The boy spoke, “Magister Illyrio… convinced the Captain-General of the Golden Company, Myles Toyne to entrust it to him, for he informed the man of my heritage before he perished upon his deathbed this year. This, along with my egg, should be more than enough proof.” And swung his sword gently at the leaves of a lemon bush, which caused a particularly over-ripe one to come rolling down, so was the sharpness of the legendary blade.

And I nodded at this, as I continued, “Very well, my Prince, I shall hope your stay in Sunspear shall be comfortable, for there is much I wish to speak to you about during your stay, after which we shall talk about your wedding to your Aunt to come in the future.”

And at this, the boy nodded, as I pondered if Jon Snow…. Jaehaerys, would find Dark Sister as well, and I looked behind me to note that the over-ripe lemon had split into three parts, a strange occurrence.

**_The Dragon That Would Be Wolf_ **

The courtyard of Castle Black rang to the song of swords as Jon watched the black-brothers in training train with each other. He mused, that one day perhaps he would have joined them if he had never learnt of his heritage.

Yes, his real name was Jaehaerys, brother to a brother whose head had been dashed onto a wall, and brother to a sister who was stabbed three dozen times, and cousin to those he had considered his half-siblings. His world had been turned upside down not a week past, when the Prince Oberyn Martell, had swaggered into Winterfell with a retinue of soldiers from all across Dorne mounted atop queer creatures called camels.

He’d been told of his heritage by the lord whom he had considered his father, and given a Valyrian Steel dagger and dragon egg before he was made a squire to the Prince.

Oberyn was a… strange man for one. Queer, and fierce, and utterly unpredictable, the man had spent much of the past few days merely gauging Jon’s skill with a sword, and his knowledge of the realm, no doubt to see if Jon was worthy of being a King.

Jon didn’t want it, to be the figurehead of a war that might very well see him and those he considered brothers on opposite sides, but there was a queer satisfaction in knowing that he was of just as high of birth as Robb and Theon both, and technically of a station higher than either. Oberyn had not seemed the bookish type at all, no, but he had brought with him three books detailing the history of the Targaryens, state-craft, and war-tactics respectively, and Jon for one, liked reading books, despite having been chased out of the library of Winterfell by the servants who tended it at times Lord Eddard’s lady wife felt particularly hostile, in fact he had ravaged near the entirety of the books under the tutoring hands of the Maester of Castle Black, Aemon.

Aemon was a Maester unfathomably old, near a hundred, Jon supposed if not more, who made Luwin look like a mere babe. It was quite possible that the ancient Maester had forgotten more than the rest of the Maesters in the North put together ever knew, but his mind remained sharp, though his eyes had long gone milky. He gave his own insights, which Jon realised were valuable too, but he gave his own speech to some of the details in the Targaryen history-book, and Jon for the life of him could not understand how the old man knew such intimate details.

Today however, Jon had not sequestered himself in the Maester’s tower; he had instead wished to duel with one of the many knights and warriors that Oberyn’s party had brought up from the South. While Lord Stannis remained ensconced at Eastwatch with his men, some of the Eastwatch brothers had chosen to instead garrison Greenguard for the time being.

Loras Tyrell and Ser Jaime Lannister’s host of Stormlanders however, had taken the Nightfort and Deep Lake for their own, and Jon had heard the black-brothers say that the Kingslayer, as Jaime Lannister was called, _for slaying mine own grandfather_ , Jon supposed, was apparently clearing much of the rubble of the two castles to make his own stay as comfortable as possible, though some black brothers said the knight was angry with his posting, though being of the Kingsguard, he could scarcely protest.

Prince Oberyn himself had chosen to stay at Castle Black with two dozen men, but the majority of his forces had taken Rimegate, Sable Hall and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool merely due to the fact that stabling the Camels required a large area. Lord Mormont did not mind this it would seem, and the other watchmen said that prior to their arrival, only three castles had been manned, and now a majority of the Eastern castles had men, even if they weren’t black brothers.

Speaking of camels, Jon had been made to ride one, and queerly, despite the swaying motions of the large creature, he had found himself get quickly accustomed to the two-humped one that had become his steed. It was a large albino, and Jon had taken to calling it Snow, a relic of his own former name that he wished to keep close. It seemed to like him well enough, and was docile for the most part, though it had bit him once, though not too harshly when he had accidently stepped on one of its hooves.

Prince Oberyn’s own beast was a… terrifying thing, to hear the talk of the grooms who tended to the camels, it would bear no rider except Oberyn himself, and was of a size larger than any other camel, being a hybrid of the single hump and dual hump ones. To add to its size, it was apparently incredibly strong as well, as were most other hybrids.

On their journey, Oberyn had said that he would find a way to make the camel venomous, and Jon did not know whether the man was japing or serious, for none could truly tell what the Martell prince ever thought.

His sparring partner was a slender free-rider who bore a wickedly sharp axe the same length as the hand-and-a-half blade that Jon preferred. It was the first time Jon would be duelling with live steel, but the man had promised that he would be taking it easy on Jon, for which he was mollified for one, for he was still ten-and-three.

Jon pressed the attack at the starting, his sword slashing through the air, and parrying the swings that the free-rider, Ser Donald Howe, was swinging through the air with the ease of a veteran. Even with the handicap, Jon was finding it difficult to keep the attack going, and so he switched to a more defensive posture.

Donald did not slow down, and went on the offensive himself, using the wickedly sharp hook on the opposite side of the axe’s blade to try to catch his sword and wrench it from his grip. Jon would not give him the satisfaction of the same.

The axe came underneath with a sweeping blow that would have collided against his leg, had he not hacked at the hilt, which had forced Ser Donald to pull it back, lest he be left with half a weapon. Then came his own downcut in response, which to his disappointment was answered by an overhand that carried with it enough force to ignore the blow outright, and would have dented his helm if it struck him.

Jon swung his own blade yet again, and it clashed against the Axe’s blade, singing the song of steel as it did so. He swung again, for he knew he would need to press the fight lest he lose by virtue of tiredness, and it connected with the back of Ser Howe’s left hand. For a moment Jon thought it would cut through, but the mailed fist was merely struck, and tried catching the blade.

Jon had an idea, and he quickly dropped the blade, which the Knight did not expect, for his momentum in attempting to pull the blade had swept him near off-balance. Jon pulled his own dagger swiftly and kept it under the tip of the man’s chin.

Ser Donald laughed at this, “I yield, Jon Snow. You’re a finer fighter than many with a sword, but if I was not handicapping myself, and I was using a Morningstar, you would be on the ground seeing stars in a matter of moments.” But Jon did not make any boasts, for it was true enough that the man had been pulling his blows, and so he spoke, “It was a good fight, Ser.”

At which the knight laughed, “Indeed it was, bastard. Remind me to buy you a drink sometime, for a boy there are few who could do what you did.”

Jon frowned, and nearly retorted that he was not a bastard, before came the sound of claps. Garbed in the same ochre that he favoured, came Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, with his hair trailing to his shoulder, and fluttering slightly from the chilly breeze that was in the air, and he spoke, “I thought to find you in the tower with Maester Aemon… not fighting knights in the courtyard.” And Jon thought then that the man would punish him, before the Prince chuckled, “Ah… to be a boy again, never-mind, come, you show promise with a sword. But you shall meet Maester Aemon with me now.”

And so he followed the Prince to Maester Aemon’s tower. As they climbed, he saw the Maester’s two assistants, Clydas and Chett, who were both ugly men, descend. Chett, who had a boil at the back of his neck the size of an egg, gave Jon a dirty look out of the corner of his eye, but Jon ignored it as he continued to climb.

It was still late in the morning, but there was always a moderate smattering of clouds in the sky, and it was the same case today. There was a fire burning in the fire-place, besides which the Maester sat, and upon his knee was something long beneath a cloth.

It was the Maester who first spoke, his voice nary a whisper, “Prince Oberyn… Jon Snow… I bid you welcome.”

Jon bit his lip as he said, “I apologize, Maester Aemon, for not visiting you. I wished to train with the sword in the yard.”

The Maester laughed softly, like the leaves falling upon snow, as he spoke, “You are a boy… ah… so much like my younger brother so long ago, always seeking the song of steel… little thinking of the joy of books.”

Jon did not know how to respond to this and so he kept his silence, though he wondered how the Maester recognized that it was them when he was blind. The Maester, almost as if he had read his mind, laughed again, as he spoke, “As my eyesight dimmed… my other senses proved… to be growing in power, though I cannot claim to feel everything that the feeling of sight provides with my other senses. Prince Oberyn’s… self-assured swagger is easily recognizable… as is your own muffled foot-steps… no doubt originating from a wish to avoid any attention that may prove untoward from those from your home.”

Jon kept silent, but what the old Maester had said was true, and Oberyn had a grin across his face. The man spoke… “Ah… it has been a while since I saw my grand-uncle… Brynden. He left me this package you know.” Finished the Maester, gesturing at the package perched on his thigh.

Oberyn spoke, “Brynden Rivers, Maester Aemon?”

Jon was confused, and spoke slowly, “Brynden Rivers… as in Bloodraven?”

Aemon spoke, “Yes… Hand of the King, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch… sorcerer… spymaster… he of thousand eyes and one.”

Jon sputtered, “But that would make you….” He tried to think which generation of Targaryen the man before him belonged to.

“Aemon Targaryen… son of Maekar, son of Aerys the 1st, who was son of Daeron the 2nd, half-brother to Bloodraven, and brother to Egg… Aegon Targaryen the 5th who was father of Jaehaerys the 2nd, father of Aerys the 2nd, father of Rhaegar, Viserys and Daenerys, of whom Rhaegar lies dead, and the latter two running from city to city in Essos… and your great-great-grand-uncle, you who are Jaehaerys the 3rd.” finished the Maester.

Jon was very confused…. As he spoke “One of the… three remaining relatives I have amongst the dragons… Maester Aemon.”

“Four…” trailed off Prince Oberyn.

“Four?” spoke Jon, confused.

Oberyn looked at him as he spoke, “You are not the last of your generation… Jaehaerys Targaryen. Your half-brother… my sister-son Aegon the 6th yet lives, and you shall be the Prince of Summerhall to his Kingship.”

Jon whispered… “I have a brother?” at which Oberyn nodded. Jon spoke, “When can I meet him?”, and Oberyn chuckled, “After we have finished our business beyond the Wall. Doran plans much, and every plan has its own time… but far be it from me to deny a brother the company of another brother… I loved Elia well, and I understand the same.”

Jon nodded, numb still, from learning he was not the last scion of Rhaegar Targaryen, just sat down. At which Maester Aemon spoke, “Brynden disappeared beyond the Wall on a ranging… for what reason I do not know, but he spoke of dark magic and forgotten things… But he did leave with me… his sword… Dark Sister… saying that he did not need it where he would be going” And saying so, the Maester pulled off the cloth gingerly, and Jon gasped as he saw the slender blade, with the same ripples as the dagger he possessed, across its surface.

It had been initially forged for a woman… he remembered, Queen Visenya Targaryen, but its length was similar to the bastard sword Jon had used in the morning. Aemon continued, “Daemon Targaryen… who declared himself King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea… spoke of the blade once… he said that it is meant for nobler tasks than slaughtering sheep. That it has a thirst for blood… I trust that you shall use it well, for the Iron Throne is not the only… thing that would hurt those unworthy of wielding it… aye… and I think you shall need it where you will be going.”

Jon was still numb, as he received the blade with reverence, but he recognized the words spoken and spoke, “Where I will be going?”

It was Oberyn who responded however, “We range to the Fist of the First Men. The First Test.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance if the quality of this chapter is not upto par. There were plotpoints that I had to dispose of soon as possible, and this was the only way I could do the same. Thanks for reading.


	5. The Sun Waxes 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ranging to the Fist, as well as an excerpt from the Westerlands.

**A/N = All Old Tongue is Scots Gaelic.**

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**_Jon Snow_ **

_========================================_

After Oberyn’s response, there had been little time to pack, but for Jon it had been time enough, for he carried little in normal times. His new possessions too, did not hinder him in the same, for the dagger was sheathed upon his left thigh, and the sword…. Dark Sister upon its back; of his dragon egg, he had gingerly folded it within three layers of soft cloth provided by the Dornish prince and placed it neatly in the saddlebag present upon the right of Snow.

Four hundred men would be ranging today, an endeavour that would have been impossible for the Night’s watch as it would have been a fourth of their strength, but easy enough for the large amount of non-watchmen that now sat at the Wall.

Oberyn’s own party comprised of thirty riders, including Jon himself, and an older knight that Jon did not recognize as commanders, for the journey towards the Fist of the First Men. Barristan Selmy and Loras Tyrell had initially decided to join them for the same, bringing with them forty more garron-equipped knights. But the Tyrell boy had decided to take a platoon of storm-landers on their own ranging instead, at the last moment, while the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard chose to continue with them.

To be frank, Jon did not consider himself a commander; he was merely a half-good swordsman and Oberyn’s squire, which necessitated his presence at this particular party. As for their guides, it was not his uncle who would be guiding them for the purpose, instead it were three men of the Shadow Tower, who had an aura of sheer unbridled capability, of being seasoned, veteran rangers.

They were Qhorin Halfhand, a living legend in the Night’s Watch who some considered a better fit for the position of First Ranger than Uncle Benjen, due to his legendary skill with a sword. The man had lost near all fingers of his right hand barring the thumb and forefinger to a wildling axe, but he had trained himself to become just as skilled with the left and he was no doubt, a great warrior. Accompanying him were a man called Dalbridge as well as another called Stonesnake, who while… not having any legends about them, Jon could recognize that the latter seemed to be an experienced climber, while the former bore an impressive looking bow, though Jon did not recognize the wood it were made of, for it was pale and white.

Of their destination, the fist was said to be have been built by the First Men in the Dawn Age, a time wherein the Children of the Forest and the Others still existed, though the latter were not met by humans. A time when the Arm of Dorne was broken in an attempt by the children to prevent the First Men from settling their lands, as they crossed over from Essos to Westeros. This war was supposedly ended with the pact at the Isle of Faces, giving birth to the Age of Heroes.

Atop the Fist stood a ringfort, or rather, the remains of one, which once upon a time stood as a defence against whatever lurked in the snows far beyond the Frostfangs, for the Wall had not been constructed as of yet, for that came in the Age of Heroes.

Jon felt an urge in his groin, and so he dismounted his camel, and trudged a few feet away from the party, which was as of yet still trawling the valley of the Milkwater, light shimmering like hammered gold off the surface of the cool river as it curved to the south.

He stopped at the small copse that lined the edge of the valley, and unlaced his breeches, pulling his member out. The golden stream came out of the edge, with little urging, hot and fast, trickling steadily into the ground below. Once the last few drops had been shaken off, Jon put it back in, and laced his breeches yet again.

He made his way back, and observed that the party had moved a few metres ahead, but was yet moving slowly, for fast movements could trigger avalanches, and that was not something they could walk out of.

He dipped his hands in the river, washing away whatever drops of piss that may have fell on his hand, and was about to stand up, when he noted that around him, there was no sound to be heard. He slowly moved his hand to his dagger, for he knew that he could not draw his sword in time to react to whatever that may lurk behind him.

And he turned fast when he heard the sound of twigs being snapped, and dagger in hand, was greeted with the sight of a particularly large cat barrelling through the air at him. The beast, true to its name, was silent and agile, no matter for its size, and Jon had little time to react as he barrelled away to the side.

The cat however, quickly corrected its own momentum, and landed facing him, no doubt considering him easy prey, for wont as these cats were to not attack living men unless starving, these cats could still disembowel a man with one paw. It let out a deep, rumbling grow, indicating it was preparing to make for Jon yet again.

Jon would not allow this, and so, he grasped the dagger by the blade, as quick as the cat itself, and tossed it with not inconsiderable force. But alas, he was still a boy of thirteen, and the dagger, while finding its mark in the scruff of the beast’s neck as well as being of Valyrian Steel, did not penetrate through its thick black fur enough, and only enraged the beast further, as it let loose a loud scream that made Jon’s hair stand on edge.

He fumbled at the hilt of his sword, hoping to pull it out, but the beast barrelled towards him, and Jon knew that he would not be able to defend himself in time. As he resigned himself to a death, thinking, _so this is how a Dragon dies… mauled to death by a cat in the snow,_ four arrows sprouted from the beast’s neck, giving it the look of a half-plucked bird.

These arrows had penetrated deep-enough it would seem, but Jon would not take any chances, and so he drew his sword in one clean fluid motion, the Valyrian steel noiselessly leaving its scabbard. He was still not used to the reduced weight, but Maester Aemon’s caution about its bloodlust would appear to be true as he swung it at the beast’s legs, and it carved through fur, skin, muscle, sinew and bone like it were so much paper. The beast let out a pitiful moan, but Jon pulled out the Valyrian dagger, and buried it deep within the eye of the cat, and it shuddered momentarily, muscles twitching in death-spasms before it laid still.

He huffed, out of both fear and exhaustion, for he had not been prepared to take a fight at the moment, as well as that he had escaped death by only the grace of the archers that had hit the beast, and collapsed to his knees, but not before sheathing the sword, for the need for secrecy was not lost upon him.

He looked up as he heard the footsteps of a man approaching, muffled as it were through the snow, and saw the face of his would-be rescuers, and to his surprise, it was only one man, Dalbridge of the Shadow Tower.

The man looked to be sixty, for his entire head was grey, and his face were lined, but his voice was soft and gentle as he spoke, “You did good boy, finishing the kill, though what madness possessed you in chasing shadow-cats?”

Jon spoke hastily, “I wasn’t chasing them… Ser. I was taking a piss, when this one stalked me from behind and attacked me. Perhaps it was hungry, for shadow-cats only hunt men when they are starving, yes?”

The archer cocked his head, and observed the shadow-cat that laid at their feet, “Far be it from me to say, but the belly of this beast looks suitably full.”

And Jon looked down to see that it were indeed the case, and just has he was about to respond, a new voice, spoke in a deep, throaty baritone, “Warg-work. It would seem we have wildlings trailing us, and a skin-changer accompanies them.”

Jon looked up, and noticed that it was the Halfhand, second-in-command of the Shadow Tower, and accompanying him were Prince Oberyn, and the Commander of the Kingsguard.

Dalbridge looked mournful as he spoke, “To think that I hoped it would be a peaceful patrol.” To which Prince Oberyn let loose a loud chuckle as he spoke, “Skin-changers? Forgotten magics dwell yet in the North it would seem… I wonder if those of the East… would consider these… wildlings to be their peers in the arts of sorcery.”

Selmy merely nodded, looking grim as he spoke, “Skin-changers or not, if this is a sign that there are wildling patrols nearby, then we must be on our ready.” As he approached Jon and pulled him to his feet, while appraising both the cat as well as Jon’s condition, he spoke, “You must be talented with a blade to not be injured from the cat, Snow, I can see why Prince Oberyn chose you to be his squire.” And Jon nodded sheepishly, for not wanting to reveal that his sword contributed in major part to dispatching the beast than his swordsmanship.

The white-bearing knight continued, his hand running through the arrows buried in the beast, “Though of these arrow shafts…. Ser… you let lose all four of them?”

Dalbridge chuckled, “Yes… Lord Selmy… but I am no… Ser, I remained a squire even since the Sack of King’s Landing.”  
  


The Kingsguard looked surprised as he responded, “You were at the Sack… then…”

The man responded, as the party made their way back to their mounts, “I am named Dalbridge… My Lord.”

The Lord Commander furrowed his brows as he spoke, “There was a Dalbridge… whom served as the squire of King Jaehaerys the 2nd once… you would not happen to be related to him?”

The archer chuckled softly, “It is the very same man you look at, Lord Selmy. We fought together during the Battle of the Ninepenny Kings as well, and so long… in my youth, I served the King, before he perished.” And saying so he ran his hands through the string of his bow.

The Kingsguard looked almost mournful, though he remained respectful, “Then I say well-met, it is not often I meet those from those times… too many perished in the wars afterwards. It shames to me to say that we are of a dying breed. King Jaehaerys was a capable king… he restored order to the kingdom, and reconciled many houses to the Throne that considered themselves slighted due to the actions of his father. To think you have not yet been knighted.” But the knight suddenly gave a sharp-look at the bow that Dalbridge bore as he spoke, “That bow… it is of the design that the Raven’s Teeth bore.”

Dalbridge grinned, “It is from my father I gained my knowledge of the art of archery, Lord Selmy, and with it I gained his bow, made of weir-wood, and a match for any of Goldenheart of the Summer Isles. He was the second-in-command of the Raven’s Teeth, and had saved King Maekar’s life once; it is merely due to that that I was chosen to be King Jaehaerys’ squire, despite of being of no great birth or station.”

Jon grew pink about his ear, for they were talking about his own namesake, and it was a queer thing, yet fascinating to realise that these two men had served the Targaryens dutifully, so long ago. These old men knew his great-grandfather, and almost as if Oberyn sensed his discomfit, he drawled, “All this is very well… but we must make our way forward to the Fist, it is from there… I am told, we can plot our way for future rangings.”

And so gently chastised, they moved to their mounts, but as he were seated and they were moving forward, the Prince cantered up to his own Camel, and he slowed Snow down to a trot, and so it remained in silence for half-a-dozen heartbeats, before Oberyn spoke in a whisper, “You fool… it would not do for you to die, here in the cold, and it would have been… a difficult situation if Selmy had thought to think of how clean the cut was. Prince or no… I would clock you about the head if you think of doing the same yet again”

And Jon pursed his lip, for he knew that he had taken an unnecessary risk in traversing so much distance for taking a piss. For the next half-hour, there was nothing of interest, nor of danger, as he maintained their cantering on the path, Camels deftly crossing the snow-banks in the same manner as the garrons.

He caught smatterings of the talk between Ser Barristan, Dalbridge, and the older knight, whom Jon had learnt was called Jason Dorne, and it would seem that all three knew each other, if only by name or status from their time in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He even heard a jest by Ser Jason, that he would like to duel Ser Barristan once they returned to the Wall, which Ser Barristan himself seemed to look forward to as well.

He looked about their path, and noted that the river seemed to widen, the further north they went, for it was no doubt enriched by the snow-melt that occurred in copious quantities here, due to the summer. His lungs were filled with the cold crisp air, though he found it slightly more difficult to breathe, for they were moving ever higher. It would seem that despite the bone-chilling cold that were here, there were still, a rich number of animals, for Jon spotted deer, bears, birds, and more in the distance, and once, he could have sworn he saw something that vaguely resembled a child at the base of a pine-tree situated on a cliff above them.

He had blinked and it was gone, and so he rubbed his eyes and looked at the place yet again, and there was still nothing to be seen, it was a queer experience, but Jon rationalized it to merely be the effects of being in a location even colder and higher than Winterfell.

When they were nearly up climbing the sheer and treacherous eastern face of the Fist, though said to be less dangerous than its other cardinal brethren, Jon paused and drank from his water-skin, deeply, for he was parched. He was jolted from this by the loud sounds of a warhorn sounding above them, _arooooooooooooo_ , it went, and Qhorin, who was next to him growled, “Thenns. Don’t know what they’re doing so far to the South of their Valley, but looks like the bastards made it up above us by taking a different approach.”

Jon moved up behind Oberyn, Snow skittering almost nervously behind the powerful hybrid that still bore no name, and almost instantly the Prince spoke, in nary a whisper “If it were any other weapon you bore… I would say carry a spear instead… but that sword is light, and longer than longswords, and even it weren’t…. so sharp, I am told these particular wildlings armour themselves in bronze, so a slash may prove fatal… though the metal is light enough for them to be nimble.”

Jon nodded, but the Prince continued, “You have a mount, do not be foolish in what you do, ride them over if you must, your beast has both the armour as well as the tenacity to withstand any hewing by stone-tipped axes, and if you find yourself dismounted, do not be so foolish as to think of honour. This is a battle, boy, not a duel.” And Jon steeled himself in preparation for the same.

It was Ser Dorne who led the first charge as they rounded the sharp turn to the base at the top of the peak, his line of five camels running through the Thenns like they were so many pigeons, and they were so many camels.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard followed soon, his own men riding through or over the chest-high fortifications of grey stone that littered the remains of the large ringfort. Ser Barristan hewed with his own sword left and right, carving through the Thenns like they were so many pieces of cake, and in return his white garb began to gain a new shade of fine crimson that any Lannister would have become proud of.

Oberyn pointed silently, “Look, the garrons of wildlings and our own alike, both shy from the camels, tell me with haste, what this would mean in a true pitched battle.”

Jon quipped quickly, “So this is not a true battle, then, My Prince?” and as the Prince raised an eyebrow, he quickly finished, “It would mean that a hundred camels stand a good chance of routing a hundred knights. Not only are the horses afraid of camels, but the camel-riders having a greater height.”

Prince Oberyn nodded, and gave a look at him out of the side of his eye, before donning his half-helm, and spurring his great beast towards a particularly well-organised team of Thenns. Jon cursed under his breath, before spurring Snow to follow the Prince. In half-a-heartbeat, he was barrelling towards a warrior who found himself too slow to roll out of the way.

Jon was still unfamiliar with the beast, and though he aimed to ride past the man and slash with his sword, Snow rode directly over the man, trampling him beneath its hooves until he resembled half a body and a fine, red paste.

Jon blanched momentarily, for it was the first man he had killed, but the sight of a particularly large wildling charging towards him, with axes hefted in both hands, forced him to spur the camel to turn about itself, and charge headlong at the man. The warrior swung his axes, a mismatched set of iron and bronze, Jon noted, but despite his own height, could only find purchase in the armour Snow wore.

Jon slashed with Dark Sister, and the Man seemed surprised momentarily, before his neck opened in a bright red smile, and he fell to the ground, gargling in his own blood. Jon stopped momentarily to assess the battlefield around him when he noted that more Wildlings were pouring above ground from what must have once been the cellars of the fort.

He looked upon fascinated, for Ser Dorne and Ser Selmy had been both dismounted, but were fighting back-to-back against three foes each. It were as if they were more wraith then men, as their swords flashed back and forth through their opponents, and if their age was hobbling them, they chose a poor way of showing it.

Ser Barristan plunged his longsword in the belly of one of his opponents, but another took the opportunity to slash at his unprotected left hand with his axe. It found no purchase, as it clanged harmlessly off the mailed fist. The older knight was a whirlwind made flesh as he spun about in a matter of seconds and hacked the wildling’s head of. 

Ser Jason had in hand a shield and morning-star, and he flailed the latter with such precision that he shattered the ribs of the enemy he was facing, who fell, no doubt brought low by a rib puncturing a vital organ. Another Thenn hacked at his shield, but the Dornish knight wrenched his hand free instantaneously, and kicked the man to the ground, before plunging his mailed fist through the warrior’s unprotected face.

Jon shook his head, he would not have the luxury of observing them for much longer, as he looked to where he would be needed, and found that the Halfhand was being targeted by four Thenns, who no doubt knew of his reputation, as well as made note of his black garb and sought to avenge themselves. He charged towards a man who, while slashing at the Halfhand, had his backed turned to Jon.

Jon seized the opportunity, and slashed at the man’s opposed neck, and the edge of the Valyrian Blade, sliced through the thick neck of the wildling with ease. Another turned away from the halfhand and sought to appraise his new opponent.

Jon would not give him the satisfaction, and spurred Snow towards his new opponent. The man seemed to be wilier than the rest, and rolled out of the way, and in doing so, dragged Jon down by his leg.

Jon tasted blood in his mouth, he had no doubt bit his tongue, but he could scarce think of this, as he saw that the Man was seeking to plunge his sword down. Jon rolled to the left on his belly, and more in haste, than anything, with the sort of grace and precision that only comes from being in such a precarious position, drew his dagger and threw it in quick succession.

The man roared in pain, as the dagger buried itself in his shoulder. The man shouted, “marbhaidh mi thu agus èigidh mi do chorp, bidh thu a ’dèanamh bastard”, no doubt a bunch of unpleasant words in the Old Tongue these people still kept. But before he could do anything, his face erupted, as a sword came clean through it. The man’s corpse fell forwards, his face now a crater. And Jon noted that his saviour was the Half-hand, who had finished the other men who had fought him.

The man offered his hand, well, half-a-hand to Jon, who gladly took it up, and retrieved the dagger from the corpse. Qhorin spat, “I don’t understand it, there haven’t been these many Thenns so far to the South for a generation at the least. They’re almost cultured with their lords and laws, though they revere their ruler as a god-king. Their lands are strong, what do they want at the Fist of all forsaken places.”

Jon was bemused, but he was glad that the seasoned ranger had noticed that either of Jon’s weapons was different from ordinary steel. Jon looked about for his mount, and finding it unharmed, clambered upon Snow yet again. He looked about, and found that Prince Oberyn had finished slaying what appeared to be a man surrounded by two wolves, though they were not of any size that could indicate they were direwolves. One even appeared to have its flattened, no doubt from a kick from the gregarious camel that the Dornish prince rode.

Qhorin spoke, no doubt having followed his eyes, “That’s the skin-changer who set his shadow-cat after you no doubt, impressive bastard to have bagged three companions, but he’s dead in the ground, due to an animal he couldn’t control, a viper.” But before Jon could respond, the sky erupted in clumps of dirt, and snow, and small rocks, as one of the smaller stone shacks exploded. Jon covered his eyes momentarily, but he was inclined to rub it at what he was seeing as of now. An incredibly hairy man, if it could be called a man, stood where not moments ago had been the shack. _It’s a giant,_ Jon realised, for no man, not even Hodor stood as tall as the thing.  
  


“FUCK! Thenns keep closer company to giants than most wildlings, but why’ve they brought one here? Dalbridge and the other archers need to turn it into a pincushion, or we’ll lose good men.” Shouted the Halfhand, and as if in response, the twelve foot tall giant roared, his crimson fur shaking off the snow and grime that clung to its skin.

It shouted again, but this time in a harrowing tone of what could only be agony, as a dozen arrows had found themselves in its chest. But if the beast were injured, it did not show it, as it swung its large club through the air, though Jon observed that it was not with any great aim, and that the giant seemed to have poor eyesight. A wildling shouted, narrowly avoiding the swing, “air do làimh dheis, jar deg dar din”, and it would seem that the giant kept the Old Tongue as well, as it swung to its right, catching a camel deftly, and sending the rider flying.

Prince Oberyn however, would seem, wished to face this giant as Jon observed him barrelling towards the large being, his spear hefted evenly towards the face of the giant. His wildling companion could not call out instructions in time, as an arrow-shaft lodged itself in his throat, and once again the giant began to flail around wildly, sniffling constantly in an attempt to use its nose.

Oberyn was not a particularly powerful man, but he had expertise with the spear, as well as momentum with him, and so the spear struck true, burying itself in the chest of the giant. The giant moaned piteously, but it seemed to have got a grasp upon Oberyn, and pulled him roughly. Jon was frightened for a moment, and so too it would seem, were the other soldiers. But the unexpected happened, the powerful hybrid camel, raised its front-legs into the air, and dashed them resoundingly against the giant, and in turn, the giant shuddered, and laid still, for two craters were now upon its body.

Jon spurred his own camel towards Oberyn, and dismounted to assess what the giant had done to the Prince he squired for. He cursed as he spoke, “Your left arm, the bone is shattered, but it looks as if it is a clean break into two pieces, hold still while I splint it, my Prince.” And as Oberyn growled in pain, Jon did the deed, with Qhorin watching over them.

Two dozen heartbeats later, and the battle was finished with near all the Thenns slain save one. The older knights were those who took charge, whereas Qhorin sought to speak to the last man, who lay dying. The Thenn growled in his Old Tongue, “Amadain, tha fios againn .... tha iad ... ag èirigh ... an luchd-coiseachd ... tha feum againn air barrachd fhuamhairean ... dh'fheuch sinn ri adharc a lorg, seann shaman ... ga smaoineachadh an seo ... tha e cudromach…” And seeing their incomprehension, he spoke gutturally, “Cold… rises… soon. Giant… horn… here, must… take.” And with these words, the man passed of his wounds.

Oberyn growled, a bit of his cockiness evaporated like the morning dew due to his broken left arm, “What does he mean?” To which the Halfhand responded quietly, “He said something about … Walkers arising. That they need more giants… and they sought to find a horn they think is here, that an old shaman told them that it is here.”

Jon gasped as he spoke, “They speak of the Horn of Winter?” to which the veteran ranger responded, “To them they know it as the Horn of Joramun, but to all the other free-folk, it was supposedly buried in a glacier, I do not know why they sought to come all the way here on the words of a shaman. But this simply means that they are a… renegade faction of Thenns if they took the words of a shaman over their god-king, but why they would commit… what they consider heresy, is beyond me.”

It was the Prince who responded, “This Horn is the horn that supposedly brings down the wall and wakes giants from the Earth?” And it was Stonesnake who responded, “That is the legend, yes.”

Qhorin spoke quietly, “We’ve lost ten men, rangers and Southrons alike. Far be it from me to yet believe in the second coming of the Long Night, his words… are that which I mislike. We shall burn the bodies, be they wildlings or our own, before we go.” And it was Oberyn who responded, “Very well, we shall burn them.”

And Jon bit his lip, for he knew not if the Others could be real, for Old Nan’s tales talked of the giants as myth, but he’d seen one today, who knows what else could be real, but his thoughts were interrupted by the normal self-assured drawl of Prince Oberyn who spoke, “Squire… you acquitted yourself well, but follow me, we still have work to do.”

And so Jon nodded and followed the Prince, who stopped momentarily at the side of his great black camel before speaking, “It would seem you have a name now… yes… you shall be Giantsbane… no?” And it would seem the camel agreed as its long neck bent down and its head nuzzled against Oberyn’s own momentarily.

But Oberyn continued walking, and Jon was perplexed as they found themselves standing next to a fallen tree. Oberyn bent over, and began digging through a mound of soft earth with his uninjured hand, and Jon proceeded to help, and it was but half-a-dozen heartbeats later, before they unearthed a bundle of black wool.

Jon was curious as he spoke, “How long could that have been there? And how did you know it was there, Prince Oberyn?” to which the Red Viper replied, “Doran told me…..”

Jon’s curiosity was severely enflamed as he spoke, “Prince Doran?! But what is inside, how did he know? Is he a greenseer?”

Oberyn responded, “The green dreams… are of the First Men… much as the dragon dreams were of Valyria… but we of Rhoynish blood are said to have our own portents and prophecies, though I know not if Doran had these river-dreams, or if he had his agents rob the forgotten vaults of the Citadel for scrolls from the Long Night.”

Jon’s curiosity now reached a veritable crescendo inside himself, but Prince Oberyn did not respond in words, but simply unwound the rope that bound the bundle and placed it at the side. Jon wagered that the rope was perhaps two feet across, but it did not interest him half so much as the bundle itself. The prince opened it gently, and Jon noted that inside… were dragonglass weapons: a dozen knives, a dozen leaf-shaped spearheads, and numerous arrowheads. But accompanying them was an aurochs horn, banded with bronze, its rim chipped, and with a large crack running down it.  
  


Jon thought, _surely this cannot be the Horn of Winter?_ And almost as if reading his mind, the Prince spoke, “I do not know either, but if it is, better we keep something that is capable of bringing down what may be our greatest defense against what may or may not lurk in the Lands of Always Winter, far to the south in Dorne. And if it is not, we must only hope that if there are truly any vestiges of the White Walkers left, they do not find whatever forgotten glacier that the Horn truly lies in.”

And Jon agreed, shuddering mildly at the thought of the enemies of Men truly existing.

****

****

**_Tyrion Lannister_ **

_========================================_

Tyrion was seated at his desk, pursing through the various reports that had found their way at the table of the castellan of cisterns and drains, that is, Tyrion himself. _Atleast it isn’t Castellan of King’s Landing’s cisterns and drains,_ he thought, as he was wont to ever since he had been given the post since the age of sixteen. The whole realm knew how much the city stunk, and some smallfolk even considered it to be Maegor’s curse upon the city to stink.

Why the Targaryens, or Robert after them had never bothered developing the sewers of the city was beyond him, but he was thankful, if only ever so slightly that the bowels of the Rock did not see much spillage or clogging of shit and piss often. No, more often than not, the ancient system of drains, said to be constructed by Lorathis that the Kings of the Rock of old had sought the service of, snaked its way into the Sunset Sea for a league atleast, and all the waste and refuse in it, found itself in the treacherous ocean.

In time, his responsibilities had expanded, if only mildly, though he knew that it must have been his Aunt Genna or Uncle Kevan who convinced his Lord Father, Tywin Lannister, to give him the duties of overseeing some mining operations in the rock, but no, not all, _My Lord Father would never give full control over his precious gold to his lecherous, half-man of a son,_ for most of the veins were managed by Damion Lannister, another cousin from Lannisport.

Today however, he was waiting for news about a particular set of tunnels that had been discovered beneath the Lion’s Mouth, the massive natural cavern that served as the Rock’s own port of call, though only longships and cogs could access it, unlike the true port-city of Lannisport. The matter of discovery of the tunnels was a tragedy, for a few workers had been swallowed up by a sink-hole in the Mouth, taking with them a small warehouse.

_A Lannister must pay his debts,_ Tyrion had thought, and so all those who had been aggrieved were suitably compensated, and the sink-hole, quickly reinforced and strengthened by the army of craftsmen and carpenters that called the place home. ”Oh yes, for a mountain that stretches two leagues from east to west, and towers at thrice the height of the wall, one needs must have enough servants to tend to every need, and then some”, were the words of wisdom that one of his ancestors had put forward to justify the maintenance of a labour-force greater than just miners, guards and servants. _Perhaps it had been a Tygett of antiquity,_ Tyrion thought, for his memory of such obscure lessons were shrouded, for his powerful mind tended to ravage more interesting books.

His thought was interrupted by his page, a Lannett appearing in front of him, and speaking, but not without bowing, “My Lord, the men who went to explore the mine, have found new veins of…”, but before the boy finished Tyrion waved him off, speaking “Yes, yes, more gold, I should have expected the same. Perhaps if the hundreds of mine-shafts and untouched veins in the Rock ever find themselves dry, we can look beneath it instead.”

The boy continued to speak, his head bobbing up and down, “No my lord, it is not gold. They have found veins of tourmaline and rubies, as well as a solitary vein of diamonds. And the tunnels seem to snake ever beneath. They ask for more men to explore the same.”

Tyrion paused, before laughing, a short bark, and spoke “Precious gems? Very well, I see no harm in diversifying our own source of wealth away from gold; I suppose we’ll need to find more miners for the same. Though I wonder, would the small-folk now be inclined to say my lord father sweats gems along with the other… saying?”

The boy had a look of fear and confusion, as well as what Tyrion wagered to be amusement ever so slight on his face, but no revulsion at the joke, no, for whatever else they may have been, barring his sweet sister and dear father, the rest of his family had never truly treated him poorly, whether they were his aunts and uncles, his cousins at Lannisport, or his other cousins such as the Lannet before him.

But it was the other bit of news that Tyrion was more interested in, _A series of tunnels, hmmm, I wonder,_ before he spoke, “They shall have more men to explore further as well, and inform Ser Damion of the same. I must needs find my lord father to inform him of this.” And the page nodded, before scampering off to do his Lord’s bidding, while Tyrion waddled out of his office.

It was a small mercy, but the quarters of the current crop of ruling Lannisters was only a bit above the level where his office was situated, and so he did not find himself too winded as to when he reached his Lord Father’s solar, though his legs were beginning to cramp. Though Tyrion found that he was well capable of acrobatics, the Gods had found it a jape no doubt at depriving him the same skill at walking.

_Hmm, speaking of gods,_ Tyrion recalled the book he had read yesterday, an account of the religious beliefs of the Ghiscari Empire of the Dawn, and their worship of a singular god named Joj Arr Arr Mah-Tin, _Perhaps he’s the only true one, and he isn’t showing his powers cause nobody worships him anymore,_ chuckled Tyrion before nodding at the pair of guards who stood outside the door, well, one of the doors, to his Lord Father’s solar. They nodded in return, and he passed through three more doors, each more magnificent than the last, before he found himself waiting as his father’s page announced his arrival. Tyrion noted that the girl appeared to be some Marbrand, no doubt a relative of his brother’s best friend, Addam Marbrand.

The page spoke, in a high voice, filled with courtly manners, “Lord Tyrion, your Lord Father says he shall see you now” and so the child bowed, and Tyrion dipped his head ever so slightly in return, before waddling inside to the chamber.

There were no servants here, for his Lord Father contemplated how to guide the Westerlands in utter silence, and perhaps this was why his belly was flat and taut, like a man forty years his junior. His father’s eyes were peering through the various documents that were neatly placed about his table, with feverish speed.

Tyrion was used to this, and so he went over to the drawer by one of the windows carved into the walls that faced the Sunset Sea, and poured himself a glass of Arbor Gold. He momentarily observed the stained Myrish Glass that was present upon it, depicting as it was Lann the Clever whispering into a sleeping Casterly’s ear.

He grabbed the cup, and seated himself opposite his Lord Father, and drained half of it, before placing it back onto the table, gingerly so as to not spill anything onto the documents, mainly because he did not want to waste any wine, but also because he did not find it in himself today to enjoy his father’s reproaches.

His father’s pale green eyes finished perusing a particularly long ream of paper, before he placed it to his right, and looked up at Tyrion, before speaking, “Well?”

Tyrion responded curtly, “The sink-hole that occurred in the Lion’s Mouth was reinforced and widened, and within it we found veins of precious gems… tourmaline, rubies and diamonds.”

His father responded curtly, “Good. All the more capital for House Lannister to utilize as I deem fit. See that those who found it get a reward of ten dragons each. And?”

Tyrion sighed as he spoke, “Apparently the series of tunnels seem extensive as they snake inland, extremely so, and I’ve authorized more men to map its entirety. It reminds one of Castamere.”

His father observed him for a long moment, before speaking, “Have architects survey the site, I am of a mind to turn it into a mining-holdfast that contains both miners and soldiers much as the Reynes did.”

“Casterly Hole, father? A second seat perhaps?” quipped Tyrion, before his father looked at him momentarily before speaking, “The iron-born reaved our fleet at Lannisport, and sallied into the Lion’s Mouth as well, lest you forget, petulant child that you were at the time. I have always been of the mind that though the Rock is impossible to take by land, a strong enough fleet can break through the Lion’s Mouth. It is one way, our greatest weakness, and I cannot tolerate the same. This gives us a good opportunity to plan a defense of the wharves, with soldiers stationed relatively close to them, and any who find that perhaps the easiest way to break the Rock is to assail the Mouth, shall find that a Mouth has Fangs, much as we have claws.”

Tyrion had thought of all this as well, but he spoke, “What enemies are there for us to fear? Viserys Targaryen? What does he have, save whatever alms he finds at begging the rulers of whichever free-city he is in as we speak?”

His father looked at him again, “Perhaps Dorne might rise for Viserys in the future, perhaps not. They have reason to nevertheless, and there are tales that they strike deals with Qohor and other free-cities, though for what purpose I know not. Dorne is not a rich country, but they must have something of value for the Qohoriks to curry favour with them. In similar note, Prince Oberyn rode to the North with a cavalry contingent, with Stannis, Barristan and your brother chosen by the Throne to over-see whatever pleasures the whoremonger may find in slaughtering wildlings.”

Tyrion drained his cup, “There’s more to the latter, I wager, and what aren’t you telling me?” To which Tywin got up from his chair and moved to the window opposite the drawer before speaking, “Lyle Crakehall and Addam Marbrand wish to go north as well. They tell me they wish to meet some forgotten cousins at the Wall, but they know I am no fool. They wish to taste battle as well.”

Tyrion waddled over to refill his cup before speaking, “And you denied them, ofcourse.”

He did not get a response immediately, and so Tyrion filled his glass and drank from it when his father spoke, “I approved.” To which Tyrion sputtered momentarily, as droplets of wine found their way onto his clothes.

His father continued, “Marbrand shall go North, he is brave and daring, yes, but he is wily as well, he shall find whatever there is to be found.”

Tyrion cocked his head as he spoke, “And if the Red Viper decides that he has enough of the chill and decides to head home before Ser Addam reaches the Wall?”

His father turned around to stare at him before speaking, “Then Marbrand and his soldiers shall have gained some experience fighting unwashed savages anyhow. The Strongboar however, I am of a mind to send him to scour the Stepstones, for they are… a stone’s throw from Dorne, and it would not be hard to find strange things at such a close distance.”  
  


Tyrion knew what the answer would be, but he spoke again, “If he finds nothing?”

Tywin responded, “Then he shall have disposed of pirates that threatened the security and wealth of the Westerlands, and the realm as a whole.” At this, Tyrion finished his cup, before turning to leave, but his father spoke, “You shall not inherit the Rock. No, if your fool brother cannot be turned from his foolish dreams of the white cloak, then it shall go to Kevan and his sons.”

Tyrion turned around to face his father, anger evident on his face and mismatched eyes as he spoke, “And you would leave your second son a penniless outcast? Less than a hedge knight?”

Tywin Lannister did not laugh, nor smile, no. But there were times when a smile threatened to pull at his lips, and it was a terrible sight to behold as he spoke, “Come now, Kevan would hardly let you starve in the dirt. He would no doubt keep your services as they are now. But that is not what I deem best for you. Your tales of the tunnels that you deem Casterly Hole remind me of other tunnels, the tunnels of Castamere that have been drowned for far too long. Before Lord Lefford, the Reynes were those of second in wealth to us Lannisters, and in those times, the Leffords had the satisfaction of being third.” Tyrion misliked this conversation as his father gripped the back of the chair tightly.

“You shall be Lord of Castamere of the Lannisters of Castamere, or whatever name you wish to take, which is of no concern to me, but you shall make a cadet branch of our own house. Lords would not wed their daughters to you, for you were a lecherous half-man, but to wed their daughter to the second richest man in the Westerlands? Every impoverished house with half a lick of sense, and many well-to-do ones would jump for the opportunity, all the same. I shall give you men to drain those halls and man your keep. You may choose to rebuild Tarbeck Hall too if you wish, and the Westerlings shall be sworn to you, and their welfare shall be your concern.”

It was as if Tyrion had been struck by lightning. Yes, he had been made a very wealthy man and noble maidens alike would fawn for him with false intentions, but to rebuild the part of the Westerlands could very well take years, and though the mines of Castamere were no doubt deep, a certain part of the wealth would no doubt be used to reimburse his lord father for the costs accrued in its draining, And all the while, there was nothing stopping Lord Tywin for punishing an errant bannerman for any slights, real or perceived with things he could not do to a second son.

He thought bitterly, _And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere, and now the rains weep over my hall, with not a soul to hear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stannis crushes some rafts next time, as well as an excerpt from the Reach.


	6. The Sun Waxes 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis's fleet sees some mild action, and the Queen of Thorns thinks about the events.

**_Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, Man without Honour_ **

_========================================_

****

An east wind blew through his luscious locks, as soft as his sweet sister’s hands, but far more than a sight chilly, though he supposed that Cersei was well enough capable of matching it with her eyes. There were no birds singing, but the air was yet abuzz with noise, as the steady droning of oars sweeping through the placid ocean carried through it.

He was not at the Nightfort where he had initially made his seat, in the seven-forsaken land that was the Wall, but of today he was to accompany the Master of Ships, Lord Stannis Baratheon the Glum, First of his Name, on his grand mission to sink wildling rafts and haphazardly constructed longships.

It was not his first choice, _no, that would be back at King’s Landing with my sweet sister lest the drunk harass her too much,_ thought Jaime bitterly, but his position as a member of the Kingsguard meant that he had no say in what he would do, whereas the heir of Lord Tywin Lannister would most definitely have had some.

The white cloak had been his dream for many years, for he had never been one for ruling, but he had served two rulers, and both were complete disappointments. What had once been the cream of knighthood, filled with heroes and legends, had been reduced to an order filled with sycophants and moderately skilled tourney-knights. Of his current brothers, only Ser Barristan and Mandon Moore were of great skill, with Boros Blount being only skilled in tourneys, where it were three-quarters horsemanship, and Preston Greenfield a passable soldier, but no warrior.

Meryn Trant was the worst of the lot, unskilled with sword, spear, lance, or any other weapon; though Arys Oakheart was near the same. _The Oakheart boy was a good sword, there was nothing amiss about that_ , Jaime thought, _but that one thinks with his cock, another Lucamore the Lusty in the making,_ had been Jaime’s assessment, and every glance out of the corner of his eye that the White Knight had given to a serving wench proved it well enough.

He strode towards the front of the ship, Fury as it was called, that Lord Stannis called his flag-ship, over the venerable but aged ship named after his gregarious older brother, King Robert’s Hammer. And doing so, he was mildly surprised to see that there appeared to be two small vessels a bit ahead of their ship. He trained his eyes yet again, and found that one appeared to be a fishing skiff, and the other a longship.

It was a boy, _one of Stannis’ squires_ , Jaime recalled who spoke then, “Must be a wildling longship raiding one of their own fishing vessels.”, and Jaime inclined his head sideways, and responded, “And why would they want to raid one of their one?”

The boy bobbed his head up and down momentarily, and bit his lip, as if unaccustomed to speaking to Knights and Lords, before speaking, “The wildlings are not all the same like us my lord, they’re of man tribes, and they raid each other as often as they harry the Northmen or the Night’s Watch.”

Jaime chuckled, “Lord Stannis has been teaching you, I suppose, if you know so much about these savages so soon. Atleast he can’t complain about your diligence.” And before the boy could respond, mortified as he looked, it was Stannis’ voice which rang out, “I have instructed Devan as according to his abilities, and much like his father, he shows signs that he will serve his liege lord to my satisfaction, Ser Kingslayer.”

Jaime turned around slowly, and cocked his head at Stannis, “So he’s the smuggler’s get then? An Onion Boy for a Lord of the Island of Obsidian, truly the Seven love their japes.” And as he expected, there was the grinding of teeth that rang through the air from Stannis’ mouth in response, “A Lord of Obsidian I may be, Kingslayer, but I cannot be said to be without honour.”

And Jaime was mildly annoyed at this before speaking, “Very well, what does the Master of Ships plan to do with the two ships cavorting about the water ahead of us?”

And Stannis responded evenly, his eyes boring into Jaime’s own, “Black Betha and the Lionstar shall deal with them. Wildling or not, a poor fisherman should not suffer the depredations of raiders.”

Jaime chuckled loud, “The fish and onions you received at the Siege of Storm’s End, have made you gain a fondness for Onion Smugglers and Fishermen it would seem, but very well, there is justice in saving helpless fishermen after all.”

Stannis clenched his jaw and spoke no more, but Jaime observed the King’s brother, a year junior to the king, and two years his senior. Stannis was a tall man, as tall as his brother, but not as… well-bodied. The Lord of Dragonstone was gaunt, but there was no weakness in this gauntness. His thin hands were muscled as cords of wood, and Jaime wagered if he had ever put on more weight he might have been a fearsome swordsman.

Gregor Clegane was said to be the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, but Robert Baratheon in his prime was Gregor writ small, if six and a half feet could be considered small. He had only seen him then in a few tourneys, but he had been muscled like a maiden’s fantasy, and could very well put a horse to sleep with a punch. There was something about the Baratheons that gave them unnatural strength even with their height. Perhaps it was that they could claim descent from both the Dragonlords, doubly so if Orys was truly a half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror, as well as the Storm Kings of Legend that gave them their freakish strength.

Jaime mused, that even Renly, who liked to be buggered rather than do the buggering, was perfectly capable of swinging a large Warhammer that would have taken Jaime an absurd amount of effort to lift, with ease. Stannis, though still somewhat young, was losing an awful lot of hair, as it were receding from the front, into what Jaime thought, resembled the shadow of a crown.

Jaime spoke, “It is a curious thing, Lord Stannis, that we share so many similarities.” And Stannis looked at him yet again, with a jaw clenched so hard that it were about to shatter, but Jaime laughed at this and continued, “Yes, I am the Queen’s brother, and you are the King’s. And we both have the misfortune of being ordered around by our beloved siblings, no?”

But before Jaime could continue, Stannis spoke yet again, “Whatever you may think are the rest of our similarities, Kingslayer, there lies a key difference between us. My honour is intact, and I broke no oaths.”

Jaime had had enough, and so he spoke, arrogance dancing through every syllable he spoke, “No? You were the Lord of the Stormlands in all but name, and in declaring for your brother, your broke your oath of fealty to the King, no? Are you not a oathbreaker as well?”

Stannis did not clench his jaw or grind his teeth this time, to Jaime’s astonishment, but spoke, “I did my duty to my family, and chose it over my duty to King Aerys.” But Jaime responded blithely, “I would have expected a better defence from he who the realm claims is the foremost servant of justice and duty. Aerys was your own uncle, your father’s cousin, as well as your liege ruler, what you did was choose a brother over an uncle, not your family over your ruler; and so even a child would tell you that you claiming to have done your duty to your family is an excuse as poor as piss.”

Stannis growled, “Poor you may call it, but I did not kill my uncle as he was seated on the throne, nor was I complicit in the murders of Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon as well, all for the want of saving my own neck rather than die as a white-cloak.”

And this was the last straw for Jaime, for the murders of Elia and her children yet rankled him, for it reminded him of his failed promise to Rhaegar to look after them, and so he growled angrily, “Draw your sword. You are as much an oath-breaker as I am, and I shall duel you until you accept the same, lest you are a craven.”

Stannis it would seem was no craven, and so he drew his sword, already being garbed in plate and mail, much the same as Jaime himself, and so Jaime drew his own sword, while the squire, Devan scampered away to the far side of the galley lest he make a nuisance of himself. The men manning the oars watched from the ship, no doubt pleased at finding a modicum of entertainment as a respite from their duty, while the crownlander soldiers merely watched in amusement, though they would no doubt intervene if anything untoward were to happen.

It was Stannis who swung first, and to Jaime’s surprise, he was faster than Jaime had thought he would be, but Jaime was faster still, and so his own longsword met Stannis’ sword with a resounding clank. Jaime’s white cloak billowed in the wind as he prepared for the dance of swords.

It was a flurry of steel and a collection of cacophonic sounds, as their weapons clashed against each other with frightening speed. _Fuck, he’s better than I thought he’d be,_ thought Jaime, as he swung his sword to intercept a swing from Stannis aimed at his feet, and carried the momentum from the parry into the left shoulder-guard, where it connected with a satisfying thunk.

If Stannis felt pain, he did not express it with so much as a grunt, as a mailed fist sailed from the hilt of his sword into Jaime’s un-helmeted face. Jaime’s long locks may have fluttered across his face, but they did nothing to protect him from the force of the blow, and so Jaime jumped backwards, and hawked a glob of blood as he spat. He could feel his lips swell, and so in rage, he slashed at Stannis’ face with immense speed, to which the Master of Ships barely reacted in time, dodging out of the way at the last second.

But a wave of blood spurted out, and Jaime was satisfied to see that there was a slash across the man’s left cheek dripping blood. And so once again they connected swords again and again, but it was Jaime who was getting the better of it, for his skill was superior still.

_For a man who has a repute as one who commands from the rear, he’s no less a sword than the White Bull,_ thought Jaime, but Gerold Hightower and Stannis Baratheon shared only one advantage over Jaime, and that was of strength.

If Stannis had the same musculature as Robert in his prime, perhaps he would be even stronger still, and actually something for Jaime to worry about but as he was now, it would only be a fight of moderate difficulty for Jaime to deal with. As Stannis’ sword came down from upwards in a high slash, Jaime swung at Stannis’ legs, in a riposte, forcing the man to abandon the attack and jump backwards.

Stannis was tiring, clearly not used to duelling for so long, and with little practice, regardless of his strength and skill, for Stannis never participated in melees or tourneys. And as Jaime landed four more blows all over the plate, it was only a matter of time, to outlast the Baratheon to secure a yield.

Just as he swung again, connecting with Stannis’ sword for the umpteenth time, a sailor shrieked, “By the Father, what the fuck is that?” And both Stannis and Jaime dropped their swords down and looked in the direction that the sailor pointed in, Jaime noted that the two ships that had been sent to rescue the fishing skiff had arrived near the fleet yet again, with the skiff following close behind them.

But the longship had decided it was wiser to outrun its pursuers and had decided to make north, and in doing so, had aroused the outcry amongst the sailors, for what had surfaced next to it could only be a Leviathan.

It easily measured atleast forty metres, twice the size of any ordinary whale, but the shocking thing was not the beast, for Leviathans were common enough, but what was coiled around it. Coiled around it was a bright blue beast that very much resembled a snake, but was as long as the whale, if not longer, but not larger, no. It’s face however, resembled the dragon skulls he had seen when they were still hung in Aerys’ court, though it was covered in flesh, scales, and sinew, and locked in a roar as it bit at the Leviathan and so he whispered, “A fucking sea dragon?” at which Stannis barked, “It would seem the Maesters need not consider the beasts myths no more.”

The Sea Dragon must have been particularly hungry to seek the Leviathan as prey, and not a smaller whale, but the Leviathan would not prostrate itself as an offering, as it thrashed about wildly, instantly crushing the longship, and sending waves towards the fleet. Stannis barked orders about, and so they began to anchor the ships.

But it was needless, for the Leviathan dived yet again, taking its companion with it, no doubt to continue their fight underwater. It was a sailor who broke the silence, “The Seven must be watching over us, if we weren’t sunk by those beasts instead. Maybe the Ironborn would be pleased to learn that some of their myths may be true.”

Jaime spoke, recalling something Tyrion had told him, back when his little brother still harboured an obsession with dragons, “A dragon grows throughout its lifetime, provided it has enough food, and is given the domain of the skies. Perhaps a Sea Dragon is much the same?”

Stannis looked at him again, the same iron ferocity in his eyes, and spoke, “Do you yield, Ser?” and in half an heartbeat, Jaime raised his sword and placed it on the man’s shoulder, its edge resting on the man’s neck and it would seem Stannis had the same idea, for he too had done the same.

Jaime chuckled, “It would seem it is a draw, Lord Stannis. I tire of duelling you, it bores me so. Perhaps if you ever decided to eat… some food, and gained some weight, it would have been an interesting match.”

Stannis gritted his teeth, before speaking, “It is a draw, Kingslayer, and you remain an oath-breaker.” And Jaime growled, “If a King commands you to take your own father’s head, while his Hand prepared to burn half a million souls, would you stand by and allow it to happen, Baratheon?”

It would seem Stannis was actually surprised, as he spoke, “The Pyromancers? Robert should have drowned them. How did they plan to burn the city?”

Jaime laughed, a mirthless laugh, as he spoke, “How would the Mad King burn anyone? Wildfire, Baratheon. Rossart and his cronies buried who knows how many thousands of pots across the city. BURN THEM ALL! BURN THEM ALL!, he shouted. Kingslayer, you call me. Oathbreaker, you call me. Man without honour, you call me. And what a King he was. I slew Rossart and then the King, or Robert would have been the King of Ashes.”

Stannis frowned, as he continued, “The crisis was averted when you slew the Pyromancer then, for he could never have signalled the rest of his order. You could have merely restrained Aerys, what was the need to kill him? But you did your duty to the realm, and forsook your duty to the King… perhaps there are some similarities between us, Kingslayer. But what of the wildfire pots?”

Jaime frowned, “My lord father had the ones in the Red Keep carefully removed, when I told him of their existence.”

Stannis scowled, “And of the rest? What did you do?” to which Jaime shrugged as he responded, “I suppose they’re still littered about the city.” Stannis’ face darkened as he spoke, “It would seem, once we return to the city, we shall be having words about the locations of these pots lest the city burn due to an ill-thrown match. And it would seem, you needs must spread the truth about your kingslaying.”

Jaime shrugged, but they were interrupted yet again by the Lionstar and the fishing skiff finding themselves bestride the Fury. Stannis barked his orders to the captain, and over the next few minutes, the three wildlings on the fishing skiff were brought up to the deck of the ship.

It was the oddest trio of wildlings Jaime had ever seen, but then again he had not seen many wildling trios that were not trying to kill him or run from him during the rangings he had ventured upon. One was a woman clad in studded furs and brandishing a spear, obviously a spearwife, another was a haggard old woman whose clothes were covered in dirt and whose hair was in odd clumps, with soil and leaves between them, and the final one was a burly man who had about him, the air of a fisherman, including the smell.

Before either Jaime or Stannis could speak, the old woman looked right into Jaime’s eyes in a manner that unnerved him, for though she was looking at him, in truth it were as if she was looking through him, at his very soul, before speaking “A golden hand rising from the ice, holding a sword, or is it a ghoul who chases his own reflection carnally? In the end, shall it be One King or Two, or mayhaps three? Mother Mole likes this one. Oh, she likes him very much. Hair of beaten gold, at heart a stumbling colt is this one.”

Jaime was unnerved by what she said, for it were almost as if this wildling woman…. Mother Mole as she called herself possessed knowledge about himself and his sister and it was improbable that they knew of him being the Kingslayer. But then Stannis grinded his teeth, and at this the woman turned towards him, matching his iron stare with her own, and saying, “Oh this one is split in twain. I see a crowned man hanging from a burning tree to the left, a broken sword blinding all who come near in hand, and to the right I see a warrior of light, one who would be the iron talons of a dragon’s claw. Oh my, Mother Mole has not seen any like these two in years, maybe never.”

Stannis growled, “You chatter like a magpie, and with less sense. I shall assume you are Mother Mole, unless that refers to a deity you pray to.” The Stag turned to the fisherman and asked him, “You are a motley trio for fishermen, even for wildlings, what were you doing here?”

The spearwife spoke, “We free-folk go where we wish, but Mother Mole bid me take her to Jeg-Leg here, she had an important vision that demanded she come here.” Stannis clenched his jaw, almost as if he were unaccustomed of talking to women before he spoke, “I have had enough of your baseless superstitions and senseless portents. I shall never wear a crown, nor do I own a sword that produces light, so begone.”

And taking the cue, the fisherman and the two women were again despatched to their skiff, and as they sailed back to the shore, But all the way, Mother Mole was cackling, “Oh yes, when you are faced with the demons of the crossroads, you would do well to remember dear old Mother Mole. Oh yes.”

When they’d left the deck of the ship, Jaime exhaled a quiet breath of relief, glad to be done with the insane woman. And he observed that Stannis, while not perturbed, appeared to be contemplative, as if he were thinking about something strange.

Jaime spoke, trying to hide how unnerved he was by making the same arrogance flow through his voice, as he spoke, “You know, Stannis, there was a king like you once.” And he brushed his hand through his hair so as to dislodge the ice that had formed all of a sudden.

Stannis growled, the iron ferocity in his eyes threatening to bore through Jaime’s skull “Was there, Kingslayer?” with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Jaime chuckled, though an image of a golden hand clawing through layers of ice as well as a man hanging from a burning tree flitted through his mind as he spoke, “Yes, I believe he was called Maekar.”

**_====================X====================_ **

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**_The Queen of Thorns_ **

****

_========================================_

Olenna was having a good day, not that’d she show it in any way except mildly decrease the intensity of her ribbings, but it was good nonetheless. And so she was reading a book in her room with her beloved grand-daughter Margaery with her, when her beloved oaf of a son, Mace had requested her to meet with him. _Requested indeed, the pumpkin headed fool,_ she thought, but if anything atleast her grand-children by him were no disappointments. Willas was kind and smart, a well enough ruler even if he would never participate in a war, due to the leg that had never quite healed right when he had been unhorsed by that Dornish bastard, Oberyn.

Oh yes, Willas would protest to her that it had been Mace’s fault for sending him in the lists at far too young an age, and that he and Prince Oberyn maintained a good correspondence with one another, Olenna would still bear a grudge against the Red Viper for having done the deed. But perhaps it had been a good thing, for while Willas was no knight, he was scholarly and wise, and wholly more capable of managing the Reach than her son.

Garlan was something that was wholly uncommon; he was as the little maidens spoke in hushed whispers about, a true and steadfast knight. Rightly so, he had been given the moniker Garlan the Gallant by his elder brother, and he had held true to his name ever since. _Well-meaning fool,_ she thought, good-naturedly of the boy, but she knew he would look after the Tyrell name firstly if it ever came to that.

Loras… well, Loras was a sword-swallower, through and through, but a fine knight, and maybe even a possible Kingsguard if Margaery ever sat the throne. Oh yes, Mace wanted it the most, planning and plotting with Renly, the so-called Stag of Flowers, to wed Robert to Margaery, but in truth that was not the fate she planned for Margaery. To be wed to a lecherous drunk brute, even if he were King, would be terrible. Mayhaps Joffrey would be a better choice, though the ladies at court that sent her tidings were of the opinion he was a queer child. Whether that meant he was Maegor or Aerys reborn, or merely an Aegon the Dragonbane would have to be seen in the future.

As she walked towards Mace’s solar, Margaery trailing behind her, now reading the book that Olenna had left, but carefully so as to not dislodge the book-marker inside it. It was good that Margaery showed an interest in the same, for the only power a noble lady would wield would be that which she got from her husband, and being a master at seduction, cajoling, and intrigue were almost necessary if she were to wed into a Royal family.

She barked, seeing her erstwhile guard, “Left! Or is it Right? Where have you been? And for that, where is your brother?”

The seven foot tall guard merely smiled widely before saying, “It’s Left, Lady Olenna, I don’t know where Arryk is, though I think he might have gone to the kitchen.”

She grumbled, “Well, the large aurochs would need to feed himself, he is your twin after all, now follow behind, my beloved son would have words with me.”

And so she walked, leaving behind the honeysuckle and petunias that twined across the buttresses of the keep of Highgarden, while the air buzzed with the sounds of hummingbird wings fluttering and bees buzzing, and a dozen heartbeats later, she was at the door to Mace’s solar. It was Erryk who opened the door, and so she walked in ,and was mildly surprised to see both Mace as well as Willas there.

“Ah, Mother, we were waiting for you.” Spoke Mace, and so she responded, “Yes, yes, that’s why you asked for me to come, didn’t you, you big oaf”

Mace smiled good-naturedly as he responded, “Yes Mother.”

And Olenna spoke, “So what’s this about?”, to which Mace responded, “Loras it would seem is not with Renly at the moment. He’s been carted off to the Wall with Stannis, the Kingslayer as well as Selmy.”

Olenna spoke, “Well? They clearly haven’t taken the black so what’s the issue?” And Mace nodded his head by speaking, “It would seem Oberyn Martell has taken a contingent of…. Camels to the Wall for a ranging against the wildlings, and King Robert decided to send men of his own to watch over the Viper.”

Olenna was confused, when did Dorne get camels? And more-over so, why were they taking them on a ranging to the North? But she wouldn’t get answers yet as Mace continued, “It would seem Lord Tywin too plans to send some of his soldiers North, but not only is he doing so, he plans to scour the Stepstones. I’ve no doubt he feels he cannot be outdone by the Dornish, and so is doing so.”

Olenna thought differently, and so she spoke, “No, Mace, as proud as the Lion is of his wealth and power, there would be more at play than him simply responding to the Dornish. If he merely sent troops to the North, perhaps yes, it would mean that he would like to enter the member-measuring contest that you think it is. But him thinking of scouring the Stepstones tells me that perhaps he thinks there’s something to warrant keeping an eye on Dorne for.” And so she eyed her son

Mace looked confused as he spoke, “So I shouldn’t send some Reachmen North too, Mother?” to which Olenna guffawed haughtily, “Oh no, we must show the power of the Reach as well, ask Tarly if he wants to go, seven knows he needs to find an outlet for his rage, though perhaps sending a Hightower or a Florent would serve better, they’ve always been truculent. But no Mace, there’s more afoot.” And hearing so, Mace began to pace the room, his jowls of flesh bouncing up and down slowly.

It was Willas who spoke now, stroking his goatee, “Prince Oberyn told me that his niece, Arianne was wedding Edmure Tully in the last letter he sent to me, and asked if I would attend it. It does seem like Dorne is planning something, but as to what still befuddles me.” And he re-adjusted his cane, no doubt in memory of the circumstances of its impairing, or perhaps it was merely a flare of pain

Margaery responded, “I was of the mind that Prince Doran might seek to wed Arianne to Garlan, but it would seem we needs must continue his wedding to Lady Leonette Fossoway for wont of a better marriage.” As she closed the book shut.

It was Olenna who spoke again, her hands rubbing the arms of the soft, padded chair that she was seated in, “Willas, I think you should attend the wedding, see if you can wheedle anything out of your…. Good friend. I believe you should take both Margaery as well as Garlan with you; the three of you together would perhaps be able to uncover the truth of the circumstances of the marriage. Where is it anyway? Sunspear, no doubt, wretched hot place that bakes under the sun it maybe, it is still the seat of the Martells. Perhaps Marg can beguile Doran’s son, what’s his name? Quentyn?”

And Mace sputtered momentarily before placing his hand contemplatively upon his chin, or rather one of his chins, as he spoke, “Very well, though they very well cannot go alone, I’ll ask Lord Paxter and Lord Rowan for the same, though I suppose I cannot forget the Hightowers either. Yes, a nice delegation of large size, would do nicely.”

Olenna snorted loudly, and thought, _Well, it would seem I must prepare an entourage of handmaidens and ladies in waiting, for after all, the Queen of Thorns owes her knowledge to grateful wives of loose-lipped husbands.”_

As she moved to depart the room, her own cane in hand, Mace spoke yet again, “Oh, Mother, I nearly forgot, Tywin’s named his dwarf son the Lord of Castamere.”

Olenna was surprised to say the least, and it was evident as she spoke, “A third branch of House Lannister? Or is a fourth? They call themselves lions but copulate like rabbits.”

Mace looked miffed as he spoke, “Mother, don’t say such things in front of the children, though it is surprising that Tyrion Lannister would rule both the Rock as well as Castamere.” Hearing so, Olenna rolled her eyes as she spoke, “Don’t be an oaf Mace, the entire realm knows how much Tywin Lannister hates his son, the dwarf would no doubt be disinherited from the rock. But the Old Lion is pragmatic if nothing else, the Lannisters will be wealthier than ever with this.”

Mace it would seem was lost, as he spoke, “So who’ll inherit the Rock? It can’t possibly be the Kingslayer, he bears the White Cloak, and Cersei is the Queen… for now. So… it would pass to his brother Kevan?”

Olenna was ever so slightly pleased as she responded, “Finally some sense has creeped into that thick skull of yours, I suppose Kevan Lannister would inherit when his brother dies, though when that happens it is likely he too will pass soon after, leaving his son…. Lancel as the Lannister heir I suppose. Though speaking of which, what does Tyrion Lannister wish to call his house? He has the repute of a lecherous whoremonger, but in addition, he’s considered to be a witty and smart man, so If Margaery is expected to memorize the colours of a House as dully named as the Lannisters of Castamere, I would be very disappointed.”

Mace tutted disapprovingly before speaking, “If Lord Renly’s informed us correctly, it would seem Tyrion has petitioned Robert to allow his house to take the name of Casterly, and Robert seems inclined to give it up… for well, the fact that House Casterly is extinct.”

Willas had poured her a glass of wine by then, and so she sipped it daintily before responding, “The Casterlys of Castamere? I suppose it does have a nice ring to it, and mayhaps the dwarf wishes to subtly inform his father it would rather be the Casterlys of Casterly Rock to which I’m sure Tywin would like to inform him that the Reynes and Tarbecks were hardly the first houses to have been driven extinct by the Lannisters. Anyhow, all this is very well, I’ll leave it to you to plan the wedding delegation Mace, if nothing else I’m sure you can do that adequately, I would like to sleep I think.”

And saying so, Olenna Tyrell left Mace’s solar, leaving behind a son no doubt befuddled as to whether his mother had just insulted him or complimented him, while his own children giggled.

As she walked, she noticed that the errant Right had found his place next to his brother, breadcrumbs still dangling from his moustache, but she did not comment on this.

There was much on her mind, and so she thought, _the reclusive Prince of Dorne…. Doran Martell, is he a player? He’s showcasing his power in the North, wedding into the Riverlands, and by all accounts is attempting to strengthen his position. But for what purpose, for it cannot be solely revenge for his dead sister? He would not risk a war with the Throne…as even if he were to declare for Viserys, he would find few supporters. What does he plan to do?_

She trailed her hands amidst the shrubbery which traced the walls as she continued to think, the sweet smell of honeysuckle filling her nostrils, _His brother invited Willas to the Wedding… and even though Marg will be accompanying him, and she’s wily, I doubt that she could press any information from the man nor his elder brother. Mmmm… perhaps it would be for the best if I were to join in as well. After all, even if one were supposedly the Tywin Lannister of the desert, which Doran is not, for as Oberyn was noted to saying, “We do not kill little girls in Dorne”, with the right ploy, perhaps the man would let slip whatever his true intentions are to a little old lady. After all, we have never met._

And as her hand touched the rose-pot perched on the sill, she had made her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter would have another ranging, as well as Tyrion again.


	7. The Sun Waxes 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion finds that restoration is a tough job, and Jon goes on a minor ranging to Icemark.

**_Tyrion ~~Lannister~~ Casterly_ **

_========================================_

It was swelteringly hot on this day, or so Tyrion thought and it did not help that the atmosphere in the wretched place that was to be his seat seemed so oppressive. It was true, that the surface castle resembled only that owned by a minor lord, but the truth of Castamere was that 9/10ths of the castle were to be found below the hold-fast, well, if a majority of it remained intact.

Oh yes, there was an army of workers here, drawn from all over the Westerlands and perhaps beyond by the lure of good coin and work, but that did not help much when the task of restoring a castle was so arduous.

Farmers who had settled along the re-directed Castamere Stream were paid to evict their modest abodes. Furthermore, the charred curtain walls and towers of the above-ground keep had proved to be a refuge for begging brothers and the like, for a poor cover from the elements was better than no cover at all, and red-cloaks were needed to remove them.

Tyrion himself was perched upon his specially constructed chair, overlooking all the progress of the workers, and so he thought to himself, sighing audibly, _this shall prove to be costlier than I thought; couldn’t father have simply drowned them? What was the need to burn the above-ground keep?”_ for even though the keep had been constructed from stone, the heat of the burning wood had destabilized their structural integrity, and so the architects who had been hired, deemed it safer to construct a new keep.

As he drank from his goblet of wine, tallying the various costs for materials with the aid of his prodigious intellect, a shadow danced over his ledger, and so he looked up to see his page, Tywald Lannett, bringing with him one of the four architects that were working on the project, one Lorathi named Bryznos, who it would seem had constructed fortress-manses for atleast half a hundred Essosi merchant-princes.

Tyrion nodded to the man, and spoke, “Care for some wine, Bryznos? To which the man waved his hand away in response before speaking, “A man thinks a Lord will need two curtain walls for the castle, Lord Tyrion.” His voice heavily laced with the thick Lorathi accent, before he continued, “Crenellations, arrowslits, two drawbridges, and perhaps two moats no? A man and his colleagues would recommend elevational isolation, but seeing as to a lord’s seat’s importance as an economic hub…. It would be best to let it be, not to mention the pitiful state of the underground facilities.”

Tyrion shook his head slowly, “Alas, I do not grasp your architectural terminologies very well, my dear Lorathi friend. Though I do peruse the occasional book or three, you shall need to explain to me in a simpler fashion.”

The Lorathi sighed, and cursed no doubt in his own tongue under his breath before he spoke, “Follow me, a man believes it would be simpler to show a lord.” And saying so, the tall Lorathi sauntered off, and it was Tyrion’s turn to curse as he followed the man on his short, stunted legs.

As they walked, Tyrion observed the work alongside the river, and of the draining, and to his surprise he could see that a skeleton had been excavated, wearing the armour of the Reyne Heraldry, probably a poor guard by the lack of any livery upon it.

It would seem that the work was accelerating at a feverish pace if bodies were already being excavated, but his observations would have to pause as the man spoke, pointing towards the freshly unsealed mine entrances, “A man says that we shall have to extend the first wall around those, lest the keep is taken and you get drowned once again when you go underground. A moat around the wall can be filled with fish, and their plants, netting a lord a steady supply of food for a while in the occasion of a siege.”

Tyrion nodded, seeing the merits of the plan even if the costs would increase in doing the same, “The second wall, a man suggests to be of parity in height with the first, as the ground is too unstable to accommodate something larger even with the reinforcements we shall be implementing. This should enable guards from both sets of walls to fire at any besieging troops, where a larger outer wall would hinder their capabilities.”

Tyrion spoke, “Your plan is sound enough, I suppose, however, I must tell you, widen the plans for the second wall, I mean to see a town in place outside the first wall, and a modestly large canal to a port on the Western Shore, which we shall develop as an extension for the town.”

The architect paused to consider Tyrion’s instructions, before speaking, “Similar to the Lannister’ Lannisport, yes? Very well, it can be done. Perhaps an underground river, from here to a Lord’s planned port-town would work as well, the complex can certainly accommodate for the same, though the excavation would be lengthy.”

Tyrion smirked, for it was exactly what he had thought. The lack of an alternate means of escape had been the downfall of the Reynes, not to mention that for such a wealthy house, they had grown far too fond of their mine-houses, as if they were a pack of ground-hogs. And further-more, well, in Tyrion’s mind atleast, making his seat to be a combination of both Lannister seats meant that the now Lord Casterly could hope to be smug in front of his Lord Father of Lannister.

For a few more minutes, the man droned on about all he recommended, and for the most part, Tyrion agreed, and even gave a suggestion as to allowing for burning oil to be poured onto any besiegers at the gates, with the aid of open pipes that snaked above into the towers flanking the gate, to which Bryznos seemed happy to include.

While previously, it had been 9/10ths of the castle that were underground, it would change to half and half if Tyrion had any say which would make the castle quite large, but still no Rock, nor even a Highgarden.

Bidding farewell to the architect, Tyrion decided to waddle about the site, so as to inspect everything yet again. And while doing so, his eye caught the sight of a person who seemed very out of place, a tall man, thin yet appearing to be muscled, with black hair falling over his eyes, and wearing black oiled ringmail over boiled leather, a round steel half-helm with a noseguard tucked under his arm, arguing with a red-cloak.

Tyrion waddled over to the scene, and the guardsman bowed hastily, seeing who was approaching, while the man curtly nodded. Tyrion spoke to the guard, “What seems to be the problem?” to which the guard responded, “M’lord, this riff-raff won’t go away, he insists he wishes to talk to you about joining your employ, and I kept insisting that nobody has need of scum such as him, especially not a highborn lord such as yourself.”

Tyrion cocked his head before looking at the man and speaking, “I’ll be the judge of that, and you may leave now.” To which the guard bobbed his head up and down thrice before moving away.

Tyrion spoke, “Well? What do you want?”

The man spoke, “The name’s Bronn, m’lord, sellsword-by-trade, though I’m a womanizer by choice.”, smirking at Tyrion.

Tyrion laughed and spoke, “Well and good, I could do with womanizers about me, but pray tell, what use would I have for for sellswords?” to which the man smiled and spoke, “A sellsword eventually gets tired of selling his sword m’lord, especially when your only clients left are fat merchants who’ll pay you a tuppence for saving their hides. I heard that Lord Lannister’s son now had a new seat at Castamere, and I thought to myself, a fresh Lord like that could always use a couple of knightly retainers no?.”

Tyrion laughed yet again, before looking Bronn in the eye, “And are you a knight, Bronn?” to which the man laughed and spoke, “No m’lord, never took those vows, can’t say I’d find much coin in that, though I’m a better sword than any as I’m sure my lord of Lannister could use.”

Tyrion thought about it, _yes, he is no knight, but he has the air of a battle-hardened killer, and talks like an insolent black-hearted rogue,_ and so he spoke, “Very well, though I no longer am a Lannister, our beloved King Robert thought fit to grant me my little request to make me a Casterly by name.”

Bronn cocked his own head and spoke, “Aren’t all the Casterlys dead? Seem to think about it, I remember hearing a tale about how Lann the Clever squeezed himself into that great big rock of theirs, by covering himself up in butter and buggered all of the Casterly women, and screaming into the men’s ears, making him the Lord of the Rock” And the man scratched his stubble before continuing, “Casterlys, Reynes, Tarbecks, can’t say I know the lords of the Kingdom, but seems to me that all of them are extinct houses, a bad omen no?”

Tyrion looked at the man and spoke, “As much as I enjoy the image of my ancestor doing so, the logical conclusion is that Lann was a retainer of the Lord Casterly, and married his daughter, and seeing as how the Casterly had no sons, it passed to Lann, making him the Lord, and his name famous.” Tyrion scratched his own ear before continuing, “Two of those houses are extinct, not three.”

The sellsword laughed and spoke, “Your little resurrection of House Casterly doesn’t count, Lord Imp, not every lord has the privilege of coming back from the dead I suppose.” Tyrion laughed yet again, “No, my dear sellsword, though I suppose the nice drowned Reyne skeletons before us envy me for the same, I mean that though Reyne and Casterly are extinct, House Tarbeck yet exists, if only in the female line, the last two daughters of Ellyn Reyne are in the order of the Silent Sisters if I remember correctly.”

The sellsword ruffled his own hair before speaking, “To think of it, whether these Tarbecks are corpses or part of that order of corpse-fuckers, makes no difference, no?” to which both men erupted in peals of laughter, and Tyrion spoke, wiping away a tear of laughter form his eye, “I like you well enough, so very well, you shall have your place as a loyal knight of House Casterly, though I’ll have to find someone to knight you in the mean-time before you can take your oath of service. And to be frank, taking you unto my service would make my Lord Father disappointed, a delightful prospect if I say so myself.”

And having heard the same, the sellsword bowed, and left to no doubt sample some of the whores that had made their lodgings amongst the small town that had cropped up to house all the workers and sate their needs.

Tyrion himself groaned and waddled back to his tent, for he knew that more tallying was in order, and as he did so, occasionally nodding in turn to every Lannister guard who saluted him, he thought to himself, _I wonder how my dear brother is doing, freezing his balls off in the North, would he rather be kissing Cersei? Though what he saw in her except a mad mirror of himself, I shall never know. Come to think of it, has he fucked her? No… even Jaime wouldn’t do that, he loves his white cloak, so even if he kisses Cersei and grabs her teats from time to time, I doubt that he’s ever put his pecker in her cunt._ And thinking so he shook his head, for thoughts of his siblings having at it in a bed nearly made him retch, parted the curtain entrance and entered his tent.

He was surprised to see his Uncle Kevan there, and so he spoke, good-naturedly, “Well, Uncle, how is the future Lord of Casterly Rock? Care for some wine?” and not waiting for a response, Tyrion poured himself a glass, and another out of habit.

Kevan smiled good-naturedly at him, his close-cropped, yellow beard making a good accompaniment for the warmth that the portly man exuded, though Tyrion thought that some of it was near a grimace. His uncle took the proffered glass and sipped lightly before speaking, “It was an ill done thing by Tywin to make me his heir, though it is only provisional, until he can convince Jaime to get rid of his white cloak. I don’t ever expect to rule, I have a feeling that my dear elder brother shall outlive even Lancel.”

Tyrion snorted, before speaking, “Ill-done or not, if dear father ever passes, you would make a fine lord nevertheless uncle, and I do hope you will not begrudge the Lord of Castamere from visiting his family at the time. And as for Jaime getting rid of his white cloak, when has my Lord Father ever been able to get his children to do as he pleases?”

Kevan sighed, his smile finally eroding away, before speaking, “Tyrion… you should not speak so harshly of Tywin… he realized that he has been neglecting this part of the Westerlands for far too long, and having another branch of Lannister in power here… even if you choose to call yourself Casterly in a flight of fancy, only serves to increase the power, wealth and prestige of House Lannister. You are your father’s son, whether he sees it or not, more-so than Jaime or Cersei, and I am sure you will rule here diligently, so as to not cause the Westerlings and whomever you choose to rule over Tarbeck Hall any cause for complaint.”

Tyrion snorted, “I’m of half a mind to make a sellsword the Lord of Tarbeck Hall, if only to spite father.” And seeing Kevan raise his eyebrows, Tyrion continued quickly, “Hush uncle, don’t give me that look, I am not so foolish. Perhaps a Crakehall for the same, or one of our cousins of the manses would do. “

Kevan gave a short chuckle for the same before continuing, “Once your castle is finished, I believe it is in your interests to find a lady wife. And stay faithful to her until you get an heir, your seed is ill-spent on whores once you are married, dear nephew.”

It was Tyrion’s turn to raise an eyebrow as he spoke, “Stay faithful to one woman until I get a child? The whores would go begging from Casterly Rock to Dorne, Uncle. Though speaking of Dorne, Prince Doran has been unusually active of late, what with his daughter’s planned marriage and his brother’s grand expedition beyond the wall. What do you think of him, uncle?”  
  


Kevan seemed mildly surprised, and swilled his cup around before speaking, “Prince Doran? I cannot claim to know him, though there is little doubt he bears no love for Tywin… nor me I suppose. I did meet the man once, when Joanna… your mother was still alive and good friends with his mother Loreza and Queen Rhaella. Stafford had found himself to be busy at the time to accompany her to court, and so he saw fit to request me to go in his place, and as Tywin did not have any need for me at the time, I accompanied her.”

Tyrion laughed, “Uncle, you sly dog, you sought to convince my mother to reciprocate father’s feelings for her by going with no?” to which Kevan gave a non-committal look which Tyrion knew to be a yes, before motioning for his uncle to continue, “He struck me as a quiet, pensive and subtle man, and he is only three years my junior if I remember correctly, but there was that same intelligence in his eyes that your father possesses, though he struck me as of more a cautious type.”

Tyrion cocked his eyebrows before speaking, “A kindred spirit to yourself then, uncle? Made friends with him, did you?” to which Kevan shook his head before speaking, “No, we did enjoy our conversations at the time, but any good-will he had towards me, I suppose, would have eroded… with the death of his sister. If there has ever been a mistake your father has committed, it was not being more specific with the deaths of Elia Martell and her children. Two pillows would have sufficed for the children, and the Princess could have been used as a better bargaining chip to keep the peace with Dorne, there was little need to set beasts such as Clegane and Lorch after them.”

Tyrion noted, _so dear uncle is fine with the murder of children, it is the manner of their murder that concerns him,_ and placed a hand on his chin before speaking, “There is peace anyhow, we have Jon Arryn to thank for that, and whatever Prince Doran is doing right now can hardly be anything more than the standard displays of their fabled horses that the Dornish are wont to do.”

Kevan seemed confused as he spoke, “You haven’t heard? Oberyn didn’t take sand-steeds with him North, Jaime sent a letter to Tywin mentioning how the Martells have seemingly purchased the entire supply of camels in the world, and have taken to using them as steeds.”

It was Tyrion’s turn to be confused as he spoke, “Camels? I suppose they are hardy beasts, Maester Jon Balgrave, said that they handled both deserts and tundra with equal ease, with even the lack of food not daunting them for atleast a week. Archmaester Klaive once said that Qarth’s Camelry could rout even the chivalry of the Reach as horses are afraid of the beasts, though the rest of the Council of Archmaesters at the time rubbished the claim, drawing from evidence of a Dothraki horde crushing a Norvoshi host of Camels at the time, though Klaive and a few other maesters argued yet again that if you fill an enemy’s camel with enough arrows, whether it can cause fear in the horse you ride can hardly be put to test, and that the Norvoshi host was ill-armoured.”

Kevan nodded, seemingly mildly interested before speaking, “Well and good I suppose, Dorne is most prone to suffering from the whims of nature, apart from the Great Spring Sickness that ravaged the realm, to which the Dornish simply closed their borders, not to mention that it is the North with which it shares it’s unfortunate status. Camels might alleviate the droughts and dust-storms a bit.”

Tyrion nodded, “Well and good uncle, but what do I owe your presence here to?” to which Kevan walked over to the stand upon which the wine jug was placed before pouring himself another cup before speaking, “I came to see how you were doing, Tyrion, I am after all your uncle, and I suppose Tygett and Gerion’s spirits would haunt me if I did not make sure the progress of your undertaking was not happening smoothly.”

Tyrion chuckled half-heartedly, “I miss them too, Uncle, though I am thankful that you and Aunt Genna care for me so. How is Tyrek, if I may ask? Uncle Tyg was always good to me, so looking after his son is our duty.”

Kevan seemed saddened as he spoke, “The boy is happy enough I suppose, and shows signs of inheriting his father’s prowess in battle. It has been five years since Tyg died of the pox, and to escape his grief, Gerion set sail in his fool’s quest. Your father sent men to look for him you know, and they reported to him recently that they traced him to as far as Volantis, where half his crew deserted him, and he was forced to buy slaves to continue his journey into Valyria. Slaves…. Tywin had the men who deserted Gerion found and hanged them all, for betraying the family, a just revenge I suppose… though it was ill done on Gery’s part on buying slaves.“  
  


Tyrion’s face curled into the same grim one that was upon Kevan’s, for Gerion had always been his and Jaime’s favourite uncle, and the circumstances of his disappearance… and almost definitely-likely death were saddening too.

Tyrion spoke again, “And of Joy? How is the child?” to which Kevan simply shook his head and spoke, “A sweet child, but a lonely one.”

Tyrion downed his cup one last time before speaking, “Well uncle, it was good to meet you, now, if you shall excuse me, I believe I have the joy of seducing the fair maiden that is my ledger, good day.” And as Kevan left, hugging Tyrion farewell, Tyrion thought of how life would be now if both his other uncles would still live.

**_====================X====================_ **

****

**_Jon Snow_ **

_========================================_

The party today comprised of fifteen riders, half of that of the ranging to the Fist of the First Men. And accompanying them this time, were only ten riders from the South, led again by Ser Barristan. The reason for their vastly reduced numbers was merely due to the fact that they would be undertaking a journey far less perilous, as they traced the western castles to spot for any wildling parties scaling the wall.

They were but a league from Icemark when the parties began to slow and the conversations began to flow, for the day prior, much news had flown across the Wall from the black brothers at Eastwatch. For one, Stannis Baratheon and Jaime Lannister had nearly met with the Stranger, as a Leviathan and a Sea Dragon locked in battle had surfaced near them, annihilating a wildling longship.

But that was the least of it, or so a watchman named Garth Greyfeather said, “Bloody sod got into a fight with Stannis, or duel rather as those highborns call it.” And saying so, he eyed Oberyn before continuing, “Mean no offence, Prince Oberyn, but apparently the Kingslayer started the duel because he thought Stannis was as dishonourable as him due to his actions way back when at the Rebellion.”

Scratching a scar across his nose, the large swarthy man made some hacking noises before continuing, “Apparently old Stannis got the idea that he forsook his… duty to the king for a duty to his family, and the Kingslayer right snorted and said he was your Uncle and Stannis merely chose a brother over an uncle.”

Oberyn drawled, “First cousin, once removed I believe, but that is neither here or there, so go on Garth.” And almost as if expecting something gave a look out of the side of his eye in Jon’s direction. Jon thought to himself _Along with the Aegons, of old, the Baratheons too are my kin, if somewhat distant, though King Robert is just as likely to try to crack my head open with a Warhammer as scream praises to my mother and hug me,_ But Jon shook his head to continue to listen to the ranger’s spiel.

Garth continued, “Right you are, my Prince, but anyhow, Stannis was apparently a better sword than anyone ever gave him credit for, he even punched the Lannister’s pretty face I think, though my mate said that towards the end, before the large fish popped its head out of the water, the Kingslayer was dancing circles around Stannis.” Oberyn it seemed was actually piqued as he spoke; his left eyebrow raised high, “Stannis near kept up with Jaime Lannister? Interesting, maybe if he ever participated in a melee or three he would be a worthy opponent.”

Garth nodded and opened his mouth to speak, “Well, since the big fish made its appearance, both of them were put off balance or something, and so they decided to call it a draw, though the true victor is obvious if I say so myself. But the best part comes now; apparently the Kingslayer broke his silence on why he did what he did to gain his title.” And as he said so, Jon looked out of the corner of his eye, to see that Ser Barristan had made his way right next to Garth, and Jon remembered that the old knight had been a member of his grandfather’s kingsguard.

Garth scratched at his chin again as he spoke, “Apparently the Mad King’s hand had enough wildfire buried under King’s Landing that the entire city would have gone up in flames had Ser Jaime not killed the Hand. Apparently Aerys had been screaming burn them all a dozen times, before Jaime put him out of his misery. I don’t know about the keeping of fancy oaths, the only one I’ll ever keep to is my oath as a black brother, but it seems to me that saving half a million souls is worth dishonouring yourself.”

A free-rider called out, “Damn, then the golden bastard saved my ma and da and my little brothers, too, by killing them. I was off at the Ruby Ford at the time.” And the other riders similarly spoke up, but it was not their reactions that Jon was interested in half-so-much as Ser Barristan’s.

The old knight spoke, near forlornly, “Rossart… so much folly from the Pyromancers, and only a young white cloak to stem the tide… I was too harsh on the boy…” to which Jon found himself bubbling with curiosity, but Garth it would seem had yet more to say as he continued, “Then apparently Stannis got it into his head that there might have been similarities between himself and the Kingslayer after all, but told him that the problem had ended when he killed the Pyromancer, he could have simply tied up Aerys.”

Another free-rider called out, “Rope in the Red Keep? I doubt the Kingslayer could find any in time before the mad-man cut himself on the throne a dozen times.” To which another called out, “He had a white cape that should have sufficed to wrap around a gaunt mad-man tightly.” To which the rest of the Stormlander party began to hoot. And with that they split apart yet again, but Jon found himself riding alongside Ser Barristan, and with Oberyn flanking the venerable knight on the other side. It was Oberyn whom spoke, near reading Jon’s mind as he said, “I wonder, why was Jaime Lannister the only Kingsguard left in the Red Keep? As I recall, yourself and my uncle were at the Trident along with Darry.” And Jon pursed his lips shut, for he knew somewhat of the situation at the Tower of Joy.

Barristan gave a long look at the prince, and to Jon it seemed as if it were a mournful one, before finally breaking the silence with, “Ser Whent, Ser Gerold and Ser Dayne were ordered by Prince Rhaegar to go to Dorne; though I know not why exactly. However, it is of my opinion that it was to safe-guard Lyanna Stark.”

Prince Oberyn snorted, and Jon felt his ears go pink, but Oberyn spoke out loud, a drawl that were as slow-flowing as honey, “Three White Brothers to guard one little she-wolf that caught the eye of Rhaegar? Seems excessive, when any one would have sufficed for the purpose.”

Jon spoke quietly to himself, “My birth caused the deaths of not only my mother, but my father and grandfather too, for wont of commanders and guards.” And almost as if Oberyn had heard him, the flamboyant prince spoke, “Dayne was an efficient commander, imagine if Rhaegar had not been so concerned with his prize and decided that using a Kingsguard as a commander of a portion of the Reach’s forces would have worked better, the first in a long series of mistakes that cost my sister and her children their lives.”

Barristan looked even more sorrowful as he spoke, “Aye… I suppose so… Mace Tyrell has always been…slow, perhaps if the Sword of the Morning had found his way to the Reach forces, and taken but a portion to the Trident… the Kingdoms would be far different.” And the White Knight slowly traced his armoured fingers over the clasps of his White Cloak.

Oberyn snorted, “That is neither here nor there. If a man is presented with three kings, and told that one is a lustful drunk, one is a mad-man who burns people, and one is a dreamer with a fancy for kidnapping, and told to choose, none of them would seem very palatable to the taste.” And ran his hand through his hair, fidgeting with it so as to ensure no ice had formed in it.

And as the party rode on towards Icemark, Jon found that Oberyn’s had found himself between Ser Barristan and Jon. And as Jon saw the ruins of Icemark in the distance, Ser Barristan it would seem, had found his voice again as he spoke, “I am not entirely sure it was a kidnapping… the circumstances do not entirely match for me.”

Oberyn laughed loud, and laughed long, his voice bouncing through the boughs and woods, and causing several birds to fly away. As his laughter peeled away, Oberyn spoke, “So Lyanna Stark took off with Rhaegar because they loved each other? Next you would tell me she whelped a babe and he is hidden somewhere, ready to conquer the Seven Kingdoms again. Truly… for one who would have defeated Dayne if he was without Dawn, your mind seems to be slipping, Selmy.” But Jon noticed that Giantsbane had been made to slow a bit, and Jon and Selmy were near parallel to each other when Oberyn had said those words.

He also noted that Oberyn had finished his short speech with his left hand pointing in Jon’s direction, and though the older knight had followed the Prince’s hand on what was no doubt instinct, before looking back at Oberyn.

Jon cursed at the Prince in his mind, wondering if the Red Viper planned to cause trouble for Jon before he ever reached Dorne and met his brother. But thankfully, it would seem the old knight thought nothing of the same, and simply rode ahead, in silence.

As they finally made it to Icemark, and Jon got off Snow, he looked to the woods, for he almost thought there was something staring at him, and for a moment it seemed like nothing, but then, between some bushes, Jon could make out a pair of wolves…. Abnormally large wolves, and so he thought to himself, _direwolves,_ and almost as if they had noticed that they had been spotted, the pair trotted away, and Jon wondered whether this were an omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Doran and Arianne


	8. The Heavens cannot brook Two Suns

**_Doran_ **

_========================================_

“The blood oranges are growing strong… it would seem,” I spoke in a weary voice, clanking the cane as I walked with Hotah on the floor. It was a worse day today, for the pain had flared yet again, not quite contrary to the remedial measures I’d taken to stymy them, but due to the fact that for if nothing else, Martin had made it clear that my gout was extraordinarily severe in its intensity.

Areo did not speak, but no doubt he thought the same of the oranges. He was my shadow, this I had grown used to. For where the Prince of Dorne went, Hotah would follow. And I was grateful all the same. It was true, I may not be a lucrative target for assassinations of now, but there was always a possibility, there is always a possibility, and there would always be one, and so, a Dornish Prince would need his shadow.

The oranges grew irregularly, some were yet small and green, as scentless as the leaves of the trees that bore them, others had fallen to the marble on the floor, burst open, filling my nose with a sharp sweet smell each time I took a breath, which was a by-product of the pain as it were, laborious and infrequent.

I grew tired of walking, for on such days, there was little I could do to motivate myself, for the gout, while no longer turned my appendages into swollen, red fruits, still caused a considerable swelling which made many actions that one could consider normal, very difficult.

I sat beneath the wafty trees, on the goose-down wheel-chair that Maester Caleotte had made for me. The poor man, bless his heart had completely expected my condition to further deteriorate, so my increased mobility when the gout did not take me had come as to him as a complete surprise.

There was no lack of intrigue in the good Maester’s eyes though, as he saw my queer methods work, and sent letters about how Gout could be treated to his Citadel. Aye, The Citadel, an unfathomable entity, even with my knowledge of the past, present and future, I did not know if those wise men of Westeros truly poisoned the Dragons and harboured an enmity towards anyone of Valyrian heritage, no more than anyone else did.

I had done my research as much as I could, for texts of the same were scant in Dorne, even in a Princely household such as mine, but a Prince’s scant was not the same as a commoner’s scant, and the books that were present, more than served well enough to find that the Velaryons and Celtigars had never been offered the services of Maesters, a curious affair all the same, but apples were not oranges, an aversion to serve those of magical blood did not yet mean that they conspired to bring them down.

And all the same, there was little I could do to investigate the possibility they were conspirators, no matter that I had been surprised to find that, yes; Doran did have agents, but certainly not at the scale that I had spoken to Oberyn of.

It was a matter that required remedying, along with several others, but I was merely two men, neither of whom’s expertise lied in the formation of Espionage agencies. But there remained the fact that Aron Santagar at King’s Landing was one of mine, a good thing provided his head was not dashed against a stone like in A Clash of Kings, but perhaps with the help of the Spider, who I would keep an arm’s length away regardless, some more assets could be cultivated.

I sighed, and sank into my chair, and for a long while, the only sounds were the wind blowing through my long hair, and rattling the tiny chain that hung on Hotah’s axe, which indicated his matrimonial status to it. Accompanying this were soft _plops_ as over-ripe oranges careened onto the floor to burst.

Old habits die hard it would seem, as I began singing softly to myself, in a fool’s attempt at dulling the pain in my joints “ _Where now the horse and the rider? …..Where is the horn that was blowing? …..Where is the helm and the hauberk? ….And the bright hair flowing? Where is the hand on the harpstring? ….And the red fire glowing?.”_ I cursed to myself once, interrupting the song, for if this had been a formal meeting with high lords, it would have been in poor showing. I would need to eliminate this habit quite soon.

And a young voice cut through the air, “Why did you stop, Uncle? I quite enjoyed the song, though I must admit, I never took the Prince of Dorne to be fond of laments.” Spoke the young, yet regal voice of Prince Aegon the Sixth, and I chuckled good-naturedly, “All songs have their own charm, My Prince, but it would have been in poor taste if you found that I am abandoning the plans for your conquest to take up the career of a way-side bard.”

The lad smiled too, his dark blue eyes flashing vividly in the son, near purple in colour, as he stepped past Hotah, Blackfyre yet attached at his hip, in the plain scabbard it was sheathed in, swinging with every step.

There was no need to play coy in front of Areo for Hotah knew of the Prince’s identity, how could he not? The captain of guards had come as a callow youth from Norvos with my… estranged wife, and yet remained here, now white haired, and scarred all around, but still an incredible fighter devoted to his long-axe and me.

If I, Doran could not trust him or Oberyn, any plan made was already forfeit. But it was not as if Hotah knew everything. All men could be broken, this was true of myself as well, and so Hotah only knew that the young Prince was someone he should watch over with the same intent as myself when the lad was in proximity.

The lad sat himself opposite me, and grabbed a couple of grapes from the bowl of assorted fruits that lay on the table before me before speaking, “I cannot say I recognize from which peoples such a song arises. It is in the common tongue yes, but it does not sound like any Andal song I know of. The matter of horses reminds one of the Dothraki, but the horselords have no culture save the one they loot and keep in Vaes Dothrak. So, Uncle, have you made this song by yourself?”

I chuckled to myself yet again, and I knew that dormant Doran in my head would be just as pleased to see his nephew truly be the perfect Prince, before speaking, “Nay, it is of a peoples called the Rohirrim, but none of their kind can be found in this world. They were horse-lords too, of whom, their leader dwelled in a golden hall, but never mind the talk of dead peoples, my Prince, it is an ill omen.”

The Prince nodded, no doubt recalling that several races had been vanquished on this god-forsaken planet, perhaps several by the Dothraki that he had mentioned earlier, one of whom were the Sarnathi people now reduced to a couple towns. And I had neither the heart nor the gumption to explain to him that they were a fictional peoples, well, as fictional as Westerosi were, which as I had found out, was a matter of perspective.

Aegon then spoke, “Maester Caleotte tells me you have commissioned a new type of ship, Uncle? He says it is of your own design?” to which I laughed, but regretted that soon enough as the laughs were quick to turn into coughs. I could not wait enough for the pain to subside and free movement again.

I grimaced before speaking, “Caleotte exaggerates, I expected better from a Maester, I am no Mason or Shipwright, but it does not take either to realise that a ship is becalmed, it can be taken from its broadside. I spoke to the wrights in Planky Town as well as here in Sunspear of a larger ship, perhaps the size of an Ibbenese Whaler, which would have slits at its sides to fit scorpions to fire in volleys.”

The well-bodied Maester remained away from ear-shot, yet remained close lest I needed a draught for my pain but he still looked chastised all the same as I glanced at him. And I could see his bald head, so very like an egg, turn ever so slightly red, but whether it was sunburn or embarrassment was anyone’s guess.

The Prince was yet again quick to grasp the situation, “Galleys and Dromonds merely possess their catapults and scorpions on their top-decks, vulnerable to boarding and enemy fire as well. With a larger ship, and the heavy weapons stored on a lower deck, with the ability to fire when turned upon their sides, yes, this could prove very useful, Uncle. An enemy who attempts to board shall find their ship turn into a puff fish from the Summer Islands.”

I smiled softly, before thinking, “ _Clever boy. Though not quite the force multiplier that Cannons are, this should certainly be able to deal with boarding and ramming actions that remain the norm with Westerosi Navies”,_ before I spoke, “This is true yes, but Scorpions are not quite so powerful to crack a ship open on their own, they must be supported by regular galleys all the same.”

At this, I decided to stand, to which the Gout once again flared, at which I winced, and to which Aegon spoke, “Do your legs hurt, Uncle?”

I smiled faintly as I responded, “Is the sun hot?” before walking towards Caleotte, as both Targaryen and Hotah followed me. With the guard ready to break my fall if the pain ever flared too much, which before my remedies, was more often than not.

Calleotte knew from my face, as well as the fact that I was leaning onto the cane a sight tighter than usual, that I was in pain, as he spoke, “Shall I fetch a draught for my Prince?” to which I responded, “No… only half a glass of dreamwine, I mean to keep my wits about me, I shall be heading to the docks to inspect the progress of the wrights.”

Aegon seemed excited too, though still stoic and regal as ever, there was still the boyish curiosity that one would see in a child when offered a chance to see something new. I spoke to Aegon, “My Prince, I request you head to your chambers and ready yourself, we shall be heading into the Shadow City’s dockyard, and you still must needs keep a disguise about yourself.”

The Prince nodded in agreement, and gave a curt nod of his head, before adjusting the scabbard at his hip unconsciously and walking away in the direction of his chambers, while I myself began the ascent to my chambers in the Tower of the Sun, for garments better befitting a Prince out in the city. I spoke aloud, “The Shadow city is full with eyes, no… Areo?” And the tall guard spoke softly, “Indeed my Prince.” To which I grimaced yet again before speaking, “Perhaps it is for the best they think I am still feeble, though truly I am not so, for this is borne of the attack of the gout, they shall not expect me to be hale otherwise, when the wretched disease does not strike..”

To which the quiet guard spoke again, “This is true, my Prince, an assassin expecting an easier mark would fall to Hotah’s axe like wheat to the scythe.”

I chuckled at the tall man’s jape, and we climbed the rest of the way in silence. The servants present dressed me in a traditional Dornish dress made of gold satin, coloured in Martell colours, with a pale red-silk cloak to accompany the same. Dead center both on the cloak and the chest of the garment, were the sigil of House Nymerios Martell, the Dornish Spear through the Rhoynish Sun.

And as they continued to dress me, Maester Caleotte had arrived with the glass of dreamwine, which I gulped down greedily and hastily, and was immensely thankful for its immediate numbing of the pain that I suffered from.

Doran’s own memories confirmed that nothing short of milk of the poppy, or opium would have sufficed prior to this, but this now meant that my solutions were working, but not to their full extent due to whatever curse Martin had placed upon Doran for me… him, to suffer from this exaggerated gout.

It would last but only for a few hours, and I would have to make most of the same, and so I glided down the stairs, ceremonial dirk at my hip, and cane forgotten, and found myself face to face with what appeared to be a Bedouin.

It was, of course, Aegon, for who else could possess eyes like those, and the Bedouin-like dress served well in the desert, as both the people of Arabia and Dorne had found out separately, and in doing so, also made him undistinguishable from the blue-eyed young men of Dorne.

It was not long before we made our way to the stables, upon which I mounted my sand-steed, a docile and well trained male named Garin, no doubt after the mythic Rhoynish prince of old, followed by the retinue of Areo and the guards, with Aegon flanking the large guard.

Connington on the other hand, had departed to Essos again, believing that I could be “trusted”, in his own words, with the safety of the boy, as he had matters to deal with the Golden Company’s contract, as well as with another mercenary company named the Black Army and its leader, a Volantene Noble.

The latter of which interested me a fair amount, for apparently they were well equipped, and well trained like a true professional army, but had spent much of their active time in Yi Ti fighting for this prince and that one. But whatever it maybe, the more troops we had on hand would make the fighting later on go that much more smoothly, this was of little doubt.

And so the retinue passed through the winding districts of the shadow city, passing a dozen bazaars, and a hundred curious onlookers, for it was not often that the ruling Martell, that is, me, made a public appearance.

Some, I even spied, were exchanging coins for some reason, no doubt bets about my health, to which I chuckled to myself privately at the ridiculousness of it all. But then I thought, _if they think I am likely to die, they are just as likely to question who is my heir,_ to which I quickly brushed away the dark thoughts, as I’d dealt with that matter, hopefully preventing the Myrcella uprising that Arianne and Darkstar had sought to bring to fruition.

Darkstar was for all intents and purposes, an edgelord, for what bravery or strength he found in scaring a girl, I know not, though rising for Myrcella would no doubt have had its own merits and demerits as a whole, the idiot was blinded by the hate of being overlooked for the role of Sword of the Morning, a fatal flaw that I understood allowed for lesser fighters to beat him if they exploited insults in such avenues.

My thoughts were brushed away by the disguised Aegon riding upto me, and speaking in hushed tones, “Uncle, I would ask you if a partition of the Seven Kingdoms into two could be considered feasible? I have been thinking of the same, and it has merits in my mind. For one, two kings could work on a more intricate level in managing the provinces, economic or otherwise.”

I paused to think about this for a moment, recalling the partition of the Roman Empire, before speaking, Doran too providing his own insights, “Not without the establishment of a standing army loyal to the crown, which in itself would require one to pull the Kingdoms out of debt, and strengthen the coinage considerably. As it is, a partition into two, would make truculent lords wonder as to why it should not be seven, and the only reason they do not consider it now, is because… well, nephew, they have… so to say… grown too used to the Iron Throne to consider anything else.”

Aegon nodded slowly before I continued, “After your ancestor first began his conquest, and established the Kingdom proper. Truculent lords were kept in place by one thing, Dragons, which multiplied the offensive force the Targaryens possessed a hundredfold, for what can harm a dragon save a scorpion shot guided by all the gods of the world? To achieve the same now, you needs must have either a way to resurrect the dragons, or the means to create an army utterly loyal to the crown.”

Aegon then was silent for a minute before speaking, “Then it was indolence by my forebears for not thinking of one, then? The Crownlands I have learnt, to not be strong, and there were several generations of wealth enough after all the dragons died, to establish a Royal Army, The closest they got to the same was the Raven’s Teeth, which did not last very long however.”

I smiled softly before speaking, “It is not the same for Robert however, where Targaryens had Dragonstone and Summerhall, he has the Stormlands, and a fighting force larger than that the Crownlands could ever muster with it. His own wife is a Lannister as well, and his Hand Jon Arryn and Brother in all but name, Stark give him two more Kingdoms to bring to muster. But mayhaps his… descendants… if they continue to rule would experience a similar starvation of power.”

Aegon nodded yet again, before manoeuvring his horse to avoid a large stone on the road, before speaking again, “So it is not feasible at all then, Uncle?”

I chuckled and spoke, “Even if you had the dragons yet again, there is a saying as to why a differentiation of power is not a grand idea, ‘the heavens cannot brook two suns, nor the Earth two masters’. And so, I believe, neither can Westeros.”

Aegon seemed mildly perplexed before speaking, “A sound saying, though I have never heard the like. It sounds Rhoynish enough with the mention of the sun, but seems alien still.” To which I laughed yet again, pain in my chest still numbed by the dreamwine, before speaking, “You are right, no Rhoynish philosopher or King spoke of this, it was King Alexander of Macedon….. who I am told, carved his way out of Ulthos and conquered a large portion of Essos in the distant past, and in such a manner as to have never lost a battle he personally oversaw.”

Aegon seemed intrigued yet again, his left hand aimlessly tracing the pommel of Blackfyre, as he spoke, “You must tell me more of this King, sometime or the other, Uncle. Sailing up and down the Rhoyne, even with Haldon and Septa Lemore, has not granted me the knowledge of such obscure characters, even though his exploits are so great.”

I laughed yet again, _even if you sailed the world nobody would tell you of Alexander, prince, but mayhaps you can learn from some of the greatest rulers of Earth, well, as much as I remember of their exploits._

And so three dozen heartbeats later, we found ourselves at the dock, or rather, the dry-dock where the first of the…ships were being constructed. Could they be called Caravels? Or were they ships of the line? I did not know, but Aegon seemed excited none the less as he badgered one of the apprentice ship-wrights with questions while I observed the ballistae… scorpions that were being designed for the same.

I myself spoke to one of the master-wrights, or rather listened to him as he spoke, “Yes my Prince, we have decided to construct the… ship of the line as the men tend to call it in a carvel method, straight from Braavos. M’lord, a lowering of the ship’s forecastle and elongation of the hull, while we raise the rest of the ship, may just give it higher stability in the water that is if you allows us to try so? It will however still possess four masts, and me thinks square rigging is the best for such a ship.”

I was no shipbuilding expert, but I knew that square rigging was the most aerodynamic rigging of sails, a little bit of trivia I’d picked up who knows where, and so I spoke, “Very well, it sounds reasonable enough to do the same. I assume you call it the ship of the line as the... scorpions will have to fire in a volley across their broadside? And more ships will join the… line, so to speak to add their own weaponry to the fray?”

The shipwright bobbed his head up and down excitedly, no doubt surprised that a Noble had grasped the term so quickly, and amused, I spoke, “Very well, I assume you shall be constructing the ship out of Ash and Oak?”

The shipwright responded, “No, m’lord, while we are using white oak, we believe chestnuts are better for the portion of the ships that will be underwater, not to mention that we’ll be reinforcing the sides with ironwood, as so many scorpions firing at once might harm the integrity of the ship.”

I nearly laughed at this, but mayhaps there was some merit to this line of thinking, while ships made of regular wood survived hundreds of cannons firing at once back on Earth, this was an entirely new type of ship for these wrights, and of great intrigue to them, and they were going for quality over quantity, and were reinforcing the product so as to ensure their patron Lord did not turn to other dockyards for the purpose.

I thought momentarily, _iron-wood clad ships eh, not that they’ll be faced with anything other than catapult shots, or perhaps the odd trebuchet aimed at the shore. Speaking of Trebuchets, If Westeros has them developed, how is any castle still possessing the repute of unassailable? All lords are rich enough to field a few dozen, enough to bring down any gate or wall._

I scratched my chin, _maybe I’m underestimating walls,_ and thinking so, I nodded to the shipwright, while observing that Aegon was still engaging in his conversation.

I was interrupted by Hotah speaking, “My Prince… there is a… Qartheen here to see you, he says his ship docked not an hour before, and he seeks an audience with you..”

I was plainly confused, for what would they need from me right now? The contracts that Doran had made prior to my… arrival were not set to expire until the new century. I thought, _perhaps they want another slice of the petroleum pie?_

But I shook my head of these thoughts and spoke, “Very well. Tell him I shall meet him here, my inspection of the shipyard cannot wait, so It shall be convenient to convene here.” And rubbed my swollen appendages slowly, for the dreamwine was slowly wearing off.

Hotah nodded and barked orders to three of the retinue that followed us, who nodded their heads and proceeded to head into the direction of what I assumed was where the Qartheen party, while I waited, contemplating as to what else the Qartheen could seek from me if not more Petroleum.

My questions were to be answered anyhow, as I spied the Dornishmen lead the party of tall, pale people, those of Qarth, who considered crying openly and freely a mark of sophistication. I thought, _Qarth was Baghdad, Constantinople and was it Babylon? Rolled into one, being as it both connected West and East, and also possessed famous walls, and If Qarth is those cities, I wonder what else Martin ripped off as inspiration? Apart from mentioning that Westeros was the War of the Roses come again, or going to be at any rate, and Yi Ti was China, I wondered what Sothoryos could be, with its disappearing colonies and shit._

My thoughts were interrupted by the liquid, dulcet tones of the Qartheen representative filled the air as he spoke, “Greetings, Prince Doran Martell of House Nymerios Martell, ruler of Dorne…. I, Khoas Lynos Loxaos, a humble… representative of the Ancient Guild of Spicers, have come to meet with you. I shall hope you shall not find that now is an unpleasant time to meet?”

I nodded curtly, observing the tall, hook-nosed man, garbed in purple linen with a samite headgear of some sort upon his head, his eyes already appearing to be watery, as I spoke, “Well met, , I am afraid that I am pressed for time, so I hope you shall not find it an offence if I ask that we move forward with what you wish to discuss with utmost haste.”

The Qartheen raised his hands in a flamboyant manner, but so as to be placating, I suppose, as he spoke, “Of course, Prince Doran. I shall be curt, as you request, the Ancient Guild of Spicers have… acquired knowledge of your contract with the Pureborn of Qarth… and as we may find, it may prove to uproot the delicate balance between them and the merchant guilds… such as our own. So quite simply, we seek to secure a contract for… one of your… wells? To… restore the balance.” Spoke the man, his nose-ring glittering in the sunlight.

I spoke, mildly amused, “And of the Tourmaline Brotherhood and Thirteen? Would they not be upset by this… balance, then?” to which the representative coolly spoke, “If those… pirates and boy-molesters… seek to secure contracts with your esteemed Princeship, then who am I to deny them, Prince Doran. I merely come on behalf of the Ancient Guild of Spicers.

“Very well” I spoke, amused by the man speaking much like Xaro Xhoan Daxos had in the books, though not quite resembling a strangely radiant bird, as I continued, “And what does the Ancient Guild of Spicers offer for the produce of a well for a duration of five years?” To which the man clapped, and spoke in the strange, liquid Qartheen tongue at his four burly unsullied, who brought two chests and laid them at my feet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hotah be prepared for the worst, but the Unsullied opened it up on the command of their master, and I saw what I expected, gold, to which the Merchant Prince spoke, “Prince Doran, you shall find Qartheen coins… equivalent to… seventy thousand of your gold dragons in those chests. And additional payments of ten thousand coins a year shall be made for the same over time.”

I smiled again, as I spoke, “The Pureborn offer… fourteen thousand a year for the same… with an initial payment of a hundred thousand. I did not think the storied Guild of Spicers were so niggardly to offer such a small amount.”

The man raised his hands yet again, before speaking in the Qartheen tongue to his party, in particular to three men and women, who seemed extremely out of place with the rest of his followers. He then stepped closer to me, and whispered “My apologies for the same then, my Prince, we shall raise the annual amount to twelve and a half thousand. But in turn… we offer to you the service of six of the Sorrowful Men over the next five years.” He spoke, pointing at the tall, yet plain-faced men and women that stood before me. The only special thing about them was that the women were dressed in traditional Qartheen gowns, that is, their breast was exposed.

Now this was not what I had expected, I had planned for a bidding match with the prince… but the offer of assassins was lucrative enough to trump gold. I recalled that the Sorrowful Men had never failed before… much like the Faceless Men. But Barristan had thwarted them once… but then again… he was Barristan. And even though they were inferior to the Faceless Men, having never failed to kill brought to bear some interesting prospects, such as stationing two of them to catch J’aqen H’ghar… or whatever his name was when he attempted to infiltrate the Citadel.

I did not know what was at play in the Citadel angle, nor why Faceless Men were disguising themselves to infiltrate it, and so using assassins to counter assassins…seemed sensible if nothing else. Not to mention, these were agents of sorts that I could use… for dispatching Renly and Robert when needed.

I made up my mind, and spoke, “Very well, I accept your offer, Khoas Lynos Loxaos. I request you head to the Old Palace so as to work out the details with the Chancery. I find that I still must complete my inspection here.” And so I dismissed the man.

The man bowed, and the Unsullied took the chests with them. And as the Qartheen Party walked away, Aegon, who I found had sidled up to my side, spoke to me, “A strange occurrence, Qartheen so far from their cities. They must have sailed well over a year ago, no, Uncle? What did the Qartheen offer?”

I spoke, “Gold… and Sorrow.” To which the boy’s eyes widened ever so slightly behind his mask, no doubt recalling the repute of the Sorrowful Men.

**_The Princess of Dorne_ **

_========================================_

Her wedding drew ever nearer, yet Arianne thought not often of it, for what was the need as of yet? When once there was need to throw herself beneath her father’s gouty feet for even considering a suitor not old and haggard, he had granted her his blessing to wed the Tully heir, though some would say the Riverlands were weak, though there remained a Tyrell option.

Indeed, she had chosen Edmure almost immediately, if only out of resident spite towards her father, for after so many years of offering her to doddering, senile fools, he had decided to spring upon her that she was promised to a Prince all the way from exotic Yi Ti, who as foolish as all men often tended to be, led an expedition to Sothoryos to never be seen again.

The preparations for the wedding would begin in full flow once her Uncle returned, though much of it was planned even now. Indeed, it had been left to Arianne to invite her Lady Mother to return from Norvos, when it turned out that her father, Doran, had seemingly _forgotten_ to do the same.

Arianne however, knew that there was no love lost between her parents, both of whom had married each other, ironically, out of love; what with Lady Mellario never understanding the Westerosi way of trading children for political reasons.

There was something to be said about the changes Dorne had been experiencing. While she believed that she was still not privy to all that her father was working on in the shadows, she knew much, and it was not out of wheedling it out of Ricasso and such, for the unimaginable were happening, her own father was confiding in her.

Though he did tell her that she was wont to gossip, the tantalizing prospect of learning more as to what else her father had been doing when he was not forging marriage pacts with exotic princes was enough to keep her mouth shut. For the time being.

Indeed, what with the commission of a massive Camelry, the beginning of a construction of new ships,, envoys from every free-city seeking to curry favour with her father, Indeed she’d spied a man and his… son, both blue haired as any garish Yunkish bard had sidled into the old palace.

The father had left, this was true, but he had not taken his… son, if he were his son with him. Arianne had spied the new guard that hung around her father at times, and her eye for men indeed told her he matched the proportions for the boy from earlier. But what she did not grasp was as to who this boy was, or why her father had taken him into service as a guard… unless it was a disguise for someone of greater purpose.

But who could it be? Off the top of her head, none of the Westerosi nobles currently reining would even deign consider dyeing their hair as a disguise, let alone hide as a guard in Dorne. And she had spent considerable time thinking on the same, when she was not being instructed by Ricasso, and her own father on varied matters.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a sharp knock came on the door, and a voice called out, “Little princess? Up and dress if you have not. The prince calls for you.” Spoke Areo Hotah, her old friend and protector. It was always good to hear that gruff, deep voice and thick Norvoshi accent, and see his seamed, scarred face.

And so she chose a simple gown of ivory linen, with vines and purple grapes embroidered around the sleeves and bodice, this along with three other dresses, were ones she wore when she desired to appear to be humble, chaste and contrite. Neither did she wear any jewels, for there was no need for them.

Hotah led her not to her father’s solar as he had expected, but to the Tower of the Sun, and so she expected more lessons in statecraft, as her father termed it. Indeed, the fact he had chosen to occupy the Tower of the Sun more often than not was a sign that his gout was reversing with alarming speed, not to mention that her father sparred with Hotah now and again, and utilized strange exercises to achieve the same.

Whatever forgotten reams in millennia old books her father may have discovered, she knew not, but it was true that seldom were the Prince’s hands red and gouty, and seldom was he aloof and estranged from her these days, for if anything the man was trying to be a father to her yet again, when all these years he had been a matchmaker.

There was a difference though, even so, he seemed… more stoic and remote, even if he interacted with her more, and though his battle with the gout could be explained, how he had thought of the establishment of a Camelry, and the construction of an entirely new class of ships that not even the Braavosi and their famed Arsenal had thought of was a matter of thought.

_Perhaps I should ask him now_ , she thought, as they entered the Tower of the Sun.

She was surprised… for there was nobody inside except her father and the same slight youth that she had taken note of. Not even Ricasso, or even the Maesters.

She spoke, “Father” and saw that he raised his head to look at her, his dark eyes calculative and intense. He spoke, “I had a dream. I was the oldest… and in it, I remained the last, I was already a man grown when both of them were born, if you remember, but in the dream, this old gouty man remained, while they were gone.”

She did not know what to say, for she could say the same, Trystane was but a child while she was a woman grown, and she did not know Quentyn at all. Oh yes, then and again she would play games with Trystane, but she almost… resented Quentyn, for years of thinking one had been passed over for a younger sibling tends to do that to one.

The Prince smiled, “No doubt you think the same… what a fool I have been to not see that where Oberyn and I found unity despite our age… you have only found resentment towards Quentyn. But never mind that. I shall ask of you how fairs your Lady Mother?” he finished, half wistfully.

Arianne bit her lip as she spoke, “She says that she shall make all possible haste to arrive at Sunspear, and that my grand-parents shall accompany her as well.”

Doran sighed softly, “A grand Norvoshi fleet then? Very well, perhaps it is for the best, you never met my own parents, and I would be a poor father to deny you the company of your mother’s.”

She thought, _he seems more placable every day,_ but held her tongue as she spoke, “She asked of your health as well, and I told her you have never been healthier, your gout merely a shadow of the past.”

Doran again looked distant as he spoke, “I met Mellario in Norvos…. The bells were ringing, and the bears danced down the steps. Areo will recall the day.”

“I remember” echoed Areo Hotah in his deep voice, “The bears danced and the bells rang, and the prince wore red and gold and orange. My lady asked me who it was who shone so bright.”

Prince Doran smiled wanly, “Leave us, captain.” To which the captain of the guard stamped the butt of his longaxe on the floor, turned on his heel, and took his leave.

Arianne was surprised, for Doran had not asked the youth to leave, and so she voiced her opinion, “You ask Hotah to leave, yet not the guard? What if he were a paid assassin?”

Doran glanced at her for a moment, his lips curling into the faintest image of a smile as he spoke, “If I cannot trust my nephew to not slay me, then what hope is there in the world of men?”

Arianne was shocked, for she had never known Uncle Oberyn to have begotten a boy child, and so she spoke, “Obara would be pleased to learn that there is finally a male Sand Snake, though hidden away he was… for what purpose I know not.”

Doran shook his head gently as he spoke, “He is not one of Oberyn’s.”, and Arianne, dumbstruck, mouthed slowly, “Not one of Oberyn’s?? Then… surely not?” to which the guard merely removed his face covering, and Arianne thought, _if this boy was not my cousin, I would ask him to ravish me,_ and indeed, there were no maidens in the Seven Kingdoms who would deny this boy, so clearly of Targaryen birth.

Arianne was quick to understand who this was, ”Aegon Targaryen, son of Elia then? And so… if one dead man can come to life, I can only assume the other is…” to which Doran raised his hand and spoke, “It is another dead man come to life, but not Prince Rhaegar, the Prophecy Prince I’m afraid perished at the Trident. The boy’s false father was Jon Connington, who you shall remember was the former lord of Griffin’s Roost, and who failed to… burn the town of Stoney Sept.”

Arianne was quick to understand what was happening now, “So… Dorne shall rise soon?” to which Doran replied, “Soon enough. Perhaps with Aegon wed to Daenerys, and his brother wed to a Tyrell.”

Now Arianne was truly left dumbstruck, but it was the boy-prince who responded, “Not by my mother… cousin, we merely share a father. Eddard Stark passed him off as his own bastard-son, and Uncle Oberyn shall bring him with himself when he returns for your wedding.”

Arianne spoke, “It would seem I was mistaken… then, my father is not…”, she was interrupted by the Prince speaking, “I know, I am too meek, and weak and cautious, too lenient to our enemies. And I have never been so… but the method by which I was undermining the image… seems to have been weak in its own right, hence you see your cousin before you now, hence you see Dorne raise a newer army and navy, hence you see me forge contracts with the free-cities so as to finance the war we undertake, for wars are costly.”

But his faced then went impassive as he spoke, “But we shall have war all the same, maybe not now, maybe not in a year but war shall come, Dorne shall rise, and we shall have with it… vengeance, and a Targaryen on the Throne.”

Arianne was happy to say the least, for her father was confiding more of her plans to her then ever, and what was the lost chance of gossip to know that she would have her own part to play in achieving justice for her aunt and dead cousins… cousin, for one now came back from the dead stood before her.

The Prince then spoke, “Very well, Arianne, I have told you of the same, for it is your duty to be able to thoroughly beguile your Lord Husband to rise for us, for if he does so… Stark’s son, that is, Aegon’s brother’s cousin, shall rise as well, and if our gambit with the Tyrells works, perhaps we can smash the Lannisters and Baratheons like Hammer and Anvil from both North and South.”

The Prince then continued, his lips curling into a smile yet again as he spoke, “Arianne, call Ricasso, Ser Manfrey and Hotah now would you, it would seem I must educate you, and by proxy, your cousin, of how to finance a… Kingdom”

Arianne raised an eyebrow as she spoke, “Kingdoms, is it not?” to which the Targaryen Prince laughed softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shall probably be more infrequent chapters from now on, swarmed with work.


End file.
